Better to Give
by catharticone
Summary: They say it's better to give than to receive, but how far will the Doctor and Rose take this adage when the lives of children are seriously at risk?
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**: "Doctor Who" is the property of the BBC; no infringement is intended._

_Special thanks are due, as always, to SonicJules for unwavering encouragement and beta assistance._

* * *

She stood on a grassy hill looking down at the small, walled city below. It was lovely, with delicate, pastel hues coloring the homes and businesses. The climate felt rather Mediterranean to her, and she could see the expanse of turquoise sea some miles beyond the city.

"'S really beautiful," Rose commented, voicing her thoughts as the Doctor climbed the hill to stand beside her.

"Yes, it is. Haven't been here in ages—eons, probably," he mused.

"Are we goin' down there?" She gestured toward the city.

"Yep. That's were the shops are, and that's where the q'ranium'll be."

"Never heard of that before."

"No, you wouldn't have. It's not on most of the intergalactic periodic tables. But it occurs naturally here, and in abundance, much like copper on Earth. It's used in all sorts of things: pipes, wires—"

"So this is a modern civilization, yeah?"

"Depends how you define 'modern,'" he replied with a little grin. "A man from the Stone Age would have found a Bronze Age fellow positively avant-garde, but the Romans would've snorted at some of the ideas widely accepted during the Dark Ages."

Rose nodded. "Right. So are these folks more medieval or Renaissance or what?"

"Oh, they're much more technologically advanced than that. I'd place them at about an equivalent of early twentieth-century Earth. They've got electricity, running water, good agricultural methods. They've got physicists, but they aren't much smarter than Einstein. Ooh, we should pop in and say hello to Albie some time. You'd like him, Rose. Great sense of humor—"

"Einstein?" Rose shook her head. "Don't think he'd be very interested in talkin' with me."

The Doctor looked at her curiously. "Why not?"

"Physics isn't exactly my best subject."

"Oh, he wouldn't care at all. He'd just enjoy your energy and smile."

"Yeah?"

The Time Lord reached for her hand. "Yeah. So what do you say we have a look at those markets?"

"Sounds good." She threaded her fingers through his as they made their way down the hill.

About half-way to the city, a road veered off to the right. Rose paused for a moment to look off at the grand complex stretching out at the end of the road some distance away. She could see gold domes glittering in the sunlight.

"What's that?" she asked. "The capital or somethin'?"

"Something like that," the Doctor replied. "That's the royal palace on the left," his hand swept over the view, "and the chancellery buildings on the right."

"Pretty posh," she commented.

"Palaces usually are," he confirmed.

"So they've got a king… or a queen."

"Yep. I think right now the ruler is Ucana III."

"Queen?"

"King. And his son'll be Ucana IV, taking over the throne in about thirty years."

"So it's a monarchy."

"Constitutional monarchy, actually. The people elect a chancellery—a group of representatives who have equal say with the king in government processes. It resembles the British system, but the king has somewhat more power, rather like the American president or Canadian prime minister."

"The systems seem pretty similar nearly everywhere we go."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "You've noticed that?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Observant, you are." He shifted his gaze to the shimmering rooftops in the distance. "The palace is famous for its architecture. Feel like a little side trip?"

Always enthusiastic to enjoy a new sight, Rose replied, "Sure!"

The Doctor took her hand again as they strolled along the new road.

* * *

The walk to the palace was much longer than Rose had anticipated. However, the weather was pleasant—neither too hot not too cold—and pretty flowering plants lined the hillside. She enjoyed the Doctor's constant chatter, too, as he described everything from the local flora to the design elements of some weird alien ship that ran on garbage.

The landscape had remained pristine for much of their walk. As the neared the palace, though, small buildings scattered before them.

"A lot of the staff live out here," the Time Lord explained. "City's a bit too far away for an easy commute at the moment. In twenty years or so they'll have widespread motorized transportation, of course, so travel'll become much faster."

"You've been here in the future, then?" Rose asked.

He nodded. "Couple of times. Once about fifty years from now, and another about five hundred years in the future."

"S'pose it'll change a lot."

"Well, in some ways, but these people are going to retain their general culture for a long time. Matter of fact, the Ucana line'll last well into the next four centuries."

A narrow road led from the homes toward the palace grounds. Rose watched as a small figure made its way along the path. After a minute or so she could see that it was a child, probably no more than six or seven years old. She thought he was moving rather slowly.

"Who d'you suppose that it?" she asked, pointing.

The Doctor squinted. "Hmm, not the prince; he's got red hair—all the Ucanas do."

"What's he doing out here all alone?"

"Oh, he should be perfectly safe—"

With those words, the child abruptly stumbled and fell to his knees. Rose hurried forward, the Doctor close at her heels.

"Hey," she called as she neared the boy, "are you all right?"

The child seemed to struggle in his efforts to regain his feet. By the time she'd reached him, he'd managed to stand, but his stance was shaky. She could see that he was very pale; his face was almost grey, and dark circles bruised the soft skin beneath his eyes.

It seemed he hadn't heard Rose, because when she spoke again he lifted his head and blinked at her.

She was only a few feet away from him now. "D'you need help?" she asked.

He opened his mouth, then his legs shook violently, toppling him toward the ground once more. However, before his little body could hit the soft earth, the Doctor had swooped in with considerable alacrity to lift the child into his arms.

Rose saw an expression of tender concern upon the Time Lord's face. He spoke gently to the child, asking where he lived. The boy nodded toward a pale yellow house.

"There," he croaked.

"All right," the Doctor said cheerfully, "let's get you home."

His strides were long and swift, and Rose had to hurry to keep up with him. He reached the house quickly, and she scurried up to knock at the door. A woman answered, balancing a toddler against her hip.

"Raben!" she exclaimed, her hand immediately resting over his head. "What's happened?" She addressed her question to the Doctor.

However, the child answered in a small, raspy voice. "I was playing with him, but I didn't feel good, so they sent me home."

"He fell on the road," Rose added.

The woman's hand moved down to press over her son's brow. "Goodness." Then she looked back up at the Doctor. "Thank you for bringing him home."

With a brief nod, the Time Lord replied, "I think this young man needs to get to bed."

"Yes, this way, please." His mother stepped back, permitting the guests to enter the tidy home then leading the way to the boy's room.

The Doctor set Raben upon the bed, and his mother settled a quilt over him. Again she brushed her hand over his forehead. "He's got a fever."

"Yes." The Doctor rested the back of his hand against the child's cheek for a moment then ran his fingertips beneath the boy's jaw.

Rose could see his concern in the tightening of his brow. "Doctor?" she inquired softly.

Raben's mother studied her visitors intently for a few seconds. "Doctor?" she repeated.

The subject of inquiry brightened a bit and offered her a smile. "Yep, that's me. And this is Rose."

"I'm Ilaine. This is Raben. Thank you for bringing him home. He's never been ill before, and he seemed fine this morning…"

The Doctor leaned in to look the child directly in the eye. "When did you begin feeling sick?" he asked.

Raben shrugged softly, his eyes moving toward the ceiling. "A little while ago."

"When you were playing with your friend?"

The child nodded.

"What were you playing?" the Doctor asked.

"Quippity Quep."

"Oh!" The Doctor grinned. "One of my favorite games! I imagine you didn't want to stop playing."

Raben shook his head. "Uh uh. It's his favorite, too, and mine. We play it every time I visit."

"I see," the Doctor said. "Well, if I knew I was going to spend a day playing Quippity Quep, I'm sure I'd want to go over to my friend's house, too, even if I was feeling a bit peaky in the morning."

Raben nodded. "Me too."

The Doctor and Ilaine exchanged knowing looks. Then she said, "Dearheart, tell me the truth. Did you feel a little sick this morning?"

"Just a little," he admitted.

"How did you feel?" the Doctor inquired. He'd taken the child's wrist gently to press his fingers over the pulse point.

"Maybe…maybe kinda dizzy. And my head hurt a little too, but just a little."

"And how does it feel now?" he asked.

"Hurts more."

The Doctor smiled sympathetically, moving his hand to rest it over Raben's chest. "You felt dizzy walking home, didn't you?"

The boy nodded.

"Do your legs hurt?"

Raben shook his head gingerly. "Uh uh. But they feel kinda funny."

"Bit like jelly?" the Doctor asked.

The child almost laughed. "Yeah, jelly."

The Time Lord quirked an eyebrow. "Grape or cherry?"

"That's hardly important," Ilaine began.

"On the contrary," the Time Lord said with mock seriousness, "it's quite important. So which is it?"

"Cherry," replied Raben somberly.

"Ah, cherry. Yes," the Doctor said quite earnestly, "cherry jelly legs. Well, that tells me quite a lot. Now how about your arms?"

Raben shook his head. "They don't feel like jelly, but… they hurt a little."

The Doctor slid up the child's right sleeve to reveal pale skin peppered with several coin-sized crimson welts. Ilaine gasped softly, and the Doctor lifted his head quickly to look at Rose.

"Go and get him a glass of water," he said calmly.

His tone of voice concerned her, though; it was almost too composed. His expression was very grave.

"Doctor? What is it?" she asked.

"Just go, Rose," he replied. Then he turned his attention back to the boy, a reassuring smile returning to his face as he moved the child's pants leg up to inspect his ankles and calves.

As Rose stepped from the room, she caught a glance of the deeply colored welts covering Raben's legs. She found the kitchen easily and filled a glass from the tap. She was just a few steps away from the bedroom when the Doctor swept from the room, closing the door behind himself.

"Here's the water," she said.

He took her arm and led her outside without a word. She blinked in the late-afternoon sunshine. "Doctor, what's goin' on?"

"You have to stay away from him," he replied.

"It's contagious?"

"Very. Well, usually it requires direct contact, but I don't want to risk it, so you need to remain out here. Actually, you should probably return to the TARDIS—"

"That doesn't answer my question," she interjected. "What's the matter with him?"

The Doctor sighed, running a hand through his hair absently. "Looks like Erythrocaeleia. It's similar to diphtheria, but this strain affects the skin, too."

"How bad is it?"

He looked at her, and the deep sadness in his eyes told her everything. "It's very serious for him."

"But you can help him, right? I mean you've got all sorts of medicines in the TARDIS—"

"I do, and given time I could probably—almost certainly—create the proper drug to combat this."

"So what're you waitin' for? Let's go get the TARDIS, an' you can begin right away."

She had already turned to go, but he wrapped his hand around her arm. "Rose, wait."

She spun back to stare at him in surprise. "What for?"

"We need to find out how widespread the outbreak is. Sometimes these strains can mutate, so I need to evaluate a representative sample of those affected. If it's only Raben—"

"Can't be. He had to've got it from someone, right?"

"Not necessarily. His mother recognized the disease right away. It's reared its ugly head here before, probably half a dozen times over the years. Her mother had it as a child and told her about it. It killed her aunt… Anyway, it's possible for these things to remain dormant until conditions are precisely right for them to develop again. That may well be the case here."

"Is Ilaine gonna to get it?"

"No, actually. That's the interesting thing about this disease. Well, I say interesting; I mean from a scientific standpoint, of course. Survivors develop a natural immunity, and they pass it on to the next generation. But it seems to stop there. It actually causes a genetic mutation, but it's a weak one that isn't sustained for more than a single generation. So most of the adults should be safe."

"How 'bout you?"

"Oh," he grinned for just an instant, "I'm not in the least susceptible to any human diseases. Good thing, too, since I've been in the midst of bubonic plague and the Black Death at least four times." His expression darkened at the memory. "But that's a story for another time."

"I'm pretty sure I was vaccinated against diphtheria," Rose said, trying to recall exactly what her mother had told her. "So I shouldn't be able to catch it, either."

The Doctor shook his head. "Not true, Rose. I said it's similar to diphtheria, not exactly the same. Your immune response is most likely insufficient to fight it off."

She sighed in disappointment. "I could've helped," she said.

He squeezed her shoulder gently. "I know you've have liked to. But the best place for you right now is the TARDIS. I'll take care of this."

Ilaine opened the door and called to them. The Doctor hurried back toward the house; Rose followed a few paces behind, stopping just shy of the doorway.

"—need to tell you something," the woman was saying. She looked pale, and her eyes were wide.

"Has he gotten worse?" the Doctor asked.

Ilaine shook her head. "No. But Doctor, his father… he's one of the Royal Sentries."

"Yes?"

"He works at the palace," she continued. "That's how they met—the boys, I mean. One day my husband forgot his lunch, and I sent Raben to the gates with his basket, and Cani was there, out for a stroll with his governess. Raben waved to him, and poor little Cani has no brothers or sisters, so he was delighted to see another child. And they became friends. They meet at least once a week to play—"

"All right, so another child may be infected."

Ilaine nodded slowly and took a deep breath. "Yes. Cani."

"I'm sorry. Should I know that name?"

Ilaine exhaled. "Doctor, Cani is his nickname; it's short for Ucana."

The Time Lord blinked in surprise. "Cani is the Prince?"

"Yes. You didn't know that?"

"We're visitors; we've come from far away," the Doctor replied.

Further questions were delayed by the arrival of Raben's father, accompanied by two other uniformed Sentries. Things happened very quickly then. Ilaine immediately told her husband, Marden, that their son was sick. Marden informed his wife that the Prince had fallen ill, too. The court physician had made a swift diagnosis; the disease was well-known and well-dreaded.

The King had ordered that Raben and his baby brother, Wess, be brought to the palace in order to isolate them from other potential victims; there was still hope that the illness would not spread as rapidly as it had during past outbreaks. The two Sentries rapidly moved through the village, questioning each family to determine whether anyone else was sick.

Ilaine made a quick introduction of the visitors, informing her husband that the Doctor had been helpful in caring for the boy, as well as knowledgeable about the disease. It came as no surprise that the Time Lord was asked to return to the palace to offer his services. Naturally he accepted.

He was less pleased, however, when Rose was compelled to accompany him. His request to permit her to leave the village and remove herself from possible infection fell upon deaf ears. The fact that she carried no natural immunity and had been exposed —albeit indirectly—was sufficient to oblige her to enter into quarantine.

Within thirty minutes, Raben and his brother lay in the arms of their parents as they traveled to the palace. Five other village children and their mothers joined the small procession, along with Rose and the Doctor. The Sentries surrounded the little group, and it was clear to all that the trip was obligatory.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

In other circumstances, Rose would have been quite impressed by the palace and its lavish grounds. However, her thoughts centered on the ill children, and she barely noticed her surroundings.

They were ushered to a wing on the far side of the palace. Inside they found a facility resembling a small hospital. They were greeted summarily by a middle-aged man who Marden introduced as Dr. Wembur, the Royal Physician. Upon his introduction to the Doctor, his natural questions about the Time Lord's qualifications were silenced with a flash of the psychic paper and a jumble of jargon that Rose scarcely understood. Dr. Wembur, however, did, at least for the most part, and she could tell that the Doctor's presence was very welcome.

The children were settled into beds, and Rose was escorted to a well-appointed room and left to sit idly upon the sofa. When she stood and tried the door, she was not terribly surprised to find it locked. She sighed and sat down again.

After some time, the lock clicked and the Doctor stepped through the door. His expression remained somber, but he managed a tight smile when she greeted him.

"You headin' back to the TARDIS now?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Wish I could. My lab makes the one here look like a child's basic chemistry set. But I'm having trouble convincing them of that."

"You? You're the most convincin' person I know!" Rose protested.

"Not this time. Problem is that I've already told them we're visitors, and the psychic paper showed them that I'm from a principality about 800 miles away."

"Why'd it do that?"

"It shows people what they expect to see. Marden told them that we're visiting, and I suppose they assumed we were from far away. Anyway, I can't get them to believe that I can reach my lab in a matter of hours—transportation here isn't that advanced yet—and I didn't want to force the issue. I can still help them here, but not if they decide I'm some sort of crank."

"Can you make an antibiotic, or whatever it is they need, here?"

"I should be able to. Their labs aren't terribly sophisticated, but all I really need are some decent microscopes, a centrifuge, and some other basic equipment. They've got all that."

"So what're you gonna do?"

"Have you ever heard of the side-chain theory of immunity? At least I think that's what you lot call it."

Rose shook her head.

"No? Suppose they aren't teaching that in biology classes, but they should. Anyway, the side-chain theory of immunity became the theoretical basis for the creation of laboratory-based antitoxins. It was used on Earth in the early part of the twentieth century to develop an antitoxin serum for diphtheria."

Rose had never found science particularly interesting until she met the Doctor. Now she was fascinated. "Yeah? How's it work?"

"In the original studies, a sublethal dose of diphtheria was injected into animals, which caused the animals to produce disease-fighting antibodies in their own blood. Blood was taken from these animals, and the serum was found capable of neutralizing the diphtheria toxin in humans. This basic idea's led to the creation of all sorts of wonderful disease-fighting drugs."

"So you think you can produce an antitoxin from animals' blood?" Rose clarified.

"Not exactly. That's the basic theory, but in this case we'd need to use human blood serum. If we can find someone with immunity to the disease—someone who survived the last outbreak—we may be able to create a simple but effective antitoxin."

Rose knew the Doctor well enough to distinguish the slight hesitation in his tone. There was some sort of hitch in the plan; she was rather familiar with that. "But there's a problem, isn't there? You said 'may be able'."

He nodded. "Yes. Two problems, really, but one is relatively easy to deal with. The first has to do with creating the antitoxin. Science here, bacteriology in particular, isn't quite ready for the side-chain theory of immunity. They'll discover it on their own within a few years, of course, but not today or tomorrow. So if I tell them about it, I'd be altering their timeline, and we both know the potential consequences of that."

Rose grimaced involuntarily at the memory of the Reapers. "Can you do the work without explaining it to them?"

"I think so. I've been given full access to the labs, and I can probably be vague enough in my explanations that I won't reveal the full theory."

"So that problem's fixable. What's the other one?"

The Doctor sighed and rubbed at his eye. "In order to produce the antitoxin, I'd need blood containing antibodies, and there aren't a lot of people around who survived the outbreak sixty years ago."

"Ilaine's mother did," Rose reminded him.

"She died two years ago."

"But there must be others."

"Of course. Problem is that there aren't many. This disease has a seventy to eighty percent mortality rate in children, and those who do survive often end up with permanent coronary or liver damage, which shortens their life spans."

"Oh God, seventy to eighty percent?" she repeated. "That's terrible. Doctor, you have to find someone. You have to make the antitoxin to save those children."

"Marden's organized a search, but it may take some time to find a survivor. And even if we do, the antibodies may be too weak to produce the antitoxin. Anyone we find would have recovered sixty years ago. Antibodies are strongest in those who've recently fought off the disease."

"An' what about in all the adults with inherited immunity?" Rose asked.

"That was my first thought, actually. I'm testing Ilaine's and Marden's blood now; I introduced infected blood to the slides to see if their blood would actively produce antibodies to fight the virus. There wasn't any significant reaction last I checked, but Dr. Wembur's keeping an eye on the samples."

As if on cue, the physician appeared at the door. His face was bleak. "It's not working," he reported succinctly.

"No reduction in viral cells at all?" asked the Doctor.

"None."

"Then we'll just have to hope that we can find a survivor," the Doctor replied.

With a bleak nod, Wembur said, "Excuse me. I need to check on the Prince."

"How are the other children doin'?" Rose asked before he stepped away.

"Their conditions are stable at the moment, but they'll grow worse over the next twenty-four hours." Wembur turned and walked away.

"Damn it," the Doctor said. "It was a long shot, but I was really hoping that would work."

"Maybe one of the survivor'll turn up and still have enough antibodies—" Rose began.

"Maybe," he interjected. "But that's going to take time—time to find them, time to bring them here. And time's something we don't have a lot of."

"Time," Rose murmured. "How long will the children be sick?" she asked rather abruptly.

"The disease usually lasts from forty-eight to seventy-two hours; it's got a fairly rapid onset and course."

"Is it the same for adults?"

"It's a bit faster—comes on more quickly and runs its course within about thirty-six hours."

"You said mortality's high for children. What about for adults?"

"Shouldn't be as bad…" He considered the question for several seconds. "I think that something like 90 percent survived during the very first outbreak, but records dating all the way back then are a bit sketchy."

Rose's eyes moved to the door. "If I went out there, sat with the children, helped take care of them—how likely is it that I'd get sick?"

"Very likely, Rose. Without immunity, you'd almost certainly contract it."

"Oh." She thought for a moment. "I might've been exposed before," she began.

"I doubt it."

"But if I was?" she persisted.

His eyes met hers for a brief but intense look. "You're young and healthy. You'd almost certainly survive even without any medication. But if you did get sick, I'd take you back to the TARDIS and treat you immediately, and we'd nip it in the bud. So you don't need to worry. And as I said, it's extremely unlikely that you were exposed. The virus passes through direct contact, and you never touched the boy."

She nodded. "No, I didn't."

He clasped her hand reassuringly and offered her a wan smile. "I should double-check the blood cultures and see if there's anything I can do to make the children more comfortable."

"What can I do? I really want to help."

"Just stay here where you're safe."

He closed the door behind himself but did not lock it. Rose sat for some time deep in thought. Eventually she realized that she needed a bathroom, so she left the room in search of the appropriate facilities. As she wandered down the hallway, she passed the children's sickroom again. The door was closed, but a small glass panel permitted her to see inside.

Ilaine sat beside Raben's bed, her hand resting over his cheek. The boy remained very pale, and she thought his face reflected pain. Ilaine held the baby in her lap; he was fussing softly, and Rose could see that his cheeks were damp with tears. He moved his leg, revealing a bit of skin above his bootie. She suppressed a small gasp when she saw the beginning of a dark weal on the pale flesh of his ankle.

How many more children would be affected? How many would die? Her thoughts spun and whirled, but in the end they coalesced into one inexorable conclusion. She walked calmly to the bathroom and emerged a few minutes later with a placid expression on her face.

Rose pushed open the sickroom door and gently took the baby from Ilaine. The anxious mother did not resist or even question the young woman's actions. She clearly did not realize yet that her younger child was ill. She returned her attention to Raben, who was whimpering softly.

Rose held the baby against her hip with one arm and ran her other hand softly over the ill boy's hair. "'S gonna be all right," she said.

She moved to an empty bed and sat down, cradling the baby in her arms. She bent to kiss his warm forehead then rested her cheek against his. "Hang on, sweetheart," she whispered. "Help's comin' soon."


	3. Chapter 3

When he entered the sickroom, the Doctor expected to see ill children lying in beds with worried parents crouched at their sides. He did not anticipate finding Rose sitting serenely with Raben's baby brother held against her shoulder.

He strode into the room, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing the children. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.

Rose looked up. "The only thing I can."

"There are people here to take care of them," he said, removing the baby from her arms solicitously and returning him to his mother's lap.

He grasped Rose's hand and pulled her up, escorting her from the room and back to the chamber in which he'd left her. She remained oddly quiet as they walked. Once inside the room, he closed the door firmly then turned to face her.

"Do you have any idea what you've just exposed yourself to?" he asked, anger fueled by deep concern.

"Yes," she replied, "I do."

"You do?" he repeated. Comprehension washed over him in a chilling instant. He'd thought she was being careless, foolishly following her helpful nature. But now he began to understand. "You went in there on purpose?"

She nodded.

"Oh, you stupid, stupid—"

"Ape. Yeah, I know." She offered him an apologetic smile. "But I thought about it, an' I understand what I'm doin'."

"Yes? Then perhaps you'd care to tell _me_." It was not a request. His eyes were dark with ire.

She eased herself down onto the settee. "I'm gettin' myself sick so that when I recover you can create the antitoxin from my blood."

"Simple as that?" he snapped.

Unfazed, she replied, "Think so. You said I'd recover without any problems—"

"I said you'd almost certainly survive. I didn't say it was an absolute."

"But it's almost certain. Survival rate for adults is over 90 percent, right? An' if for some reason I'm not gettin' better, if you think I'm in danger, you can take me back to the TARDIS an' treat me, an' you said yourself it'd be easy, you could nip it in the bud."

"Thought it all out, have you?" he asked with considerable pique.

"Yeah, I have."

"And did it ever occur to you to discuss this with me first? To allow me to point out that a 90 percent survival rate by definition means a 10 percent mortality rate, and those odds are not ones I'd want to bet your life on. And I think you neglected to consider what I said about the effects of the disease, about the long-term, permanent damage to the heart and liver and other organs that survivors suffer." He paused in his mounting tirade to take a breath.

Rose took advantage of the brief respite to say, "You can fix those things, can't you? You've told me the TARDIS has all sorts of equipment an' advanced technology—"

"Just like that?" He snapped his fingers sharply. "Sort it all out in a few minutes, will I?"

"Well, can you or can't you?" Now she was growing vexed with his derision.

He glared at her. "Of course I can! But that's not the point. The point is—"

"That I'm the only person here and now who can help those children. An' that's what I'm choosin' to do." She folded her own arms over her chest and tilted up her head resolutely.

His stance relaxed slightly, and the Doctor moved across the room to sit beside her. "Rose." His voice was gentler now. "I appreciate the depth of your caring. But I wish you'd discussed this with me first."

"An' if I had, what would you have said?"

"I'd have told you it was a very bad idea, and I'd have prevented you from undertaking it."

She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "An' that's exactly why I didn't tell you."

He raked a hand through his hair. His anger had melted away as anxiety overtook it. "There's still a chance you weren't exposed," he began.

"The baby's sick now. I saw a spot on his leg."

He blinked at her. "How long did you hold him?"

"Fifteen or twenty minutes."

"Maybe it wasn't enough. Not everyone gets it—"

"But I need to. So I should go back in there an' spend more time with the children. They can all use some extra attention."

"You're determined to do this, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"And there's nothing I can say to change your mind?"

She shook her head. "Nothin'."

He took her hand in his, running his finger softly over her wrist. He traced the narrow, winding purple vein beneath the skin. "You're going to feel like hell," he said, finally.

"I know."

"And if the disease doesn't run its course fully, you won't develop antibodies. And believe me, Rose Tyler, if I think for one second that you're in danger, I'm taking you back to the TARDIS and treating you; there's no question about that. So there's a chance that you might go through all of this for nothing."

"I'll take that chance. Maybe someone else—one of the old survivors—will've been found by then an' you can use their blood."

He wrapped his fingers tightly around her hand then captured her gaze. She found that she could not look away.

"There's still a chance that you haven't been infected," he said hopefully after a few moments.

Rose maintained the gaze steadily. "Then infect me," she replied.

"What?"

"Like those scientists did with the animals. Inject me with blood from one of the sick children. That'll guarantee that I get it."

"Rose, no—"

"Doctor," she said firmly, "if we're gonna do this, we should do it right. An' if you won't do this, I'm just gonna go back in there again. I know I'm not a scientist, but I think I'll get sick a lot faster if you inject the virus directly into my bloodstream, an' you said that time is somethin' we don't have. So let's get on with it."

"Rose—" He placed his hand against her cheek. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll do it."

He had seen Tyler determination a dozen times, but he'd never seen such utter and unwavering resolution from Rose before. "Are you absolutely certain?"

"You know I am."

He nodded in reluctant capitulation then stood slowly. "Wait here. I'll be back in a few minutes."

* * *

The Doctor returned with small, white tray in his hands. It held a bottle, several cotton balls, and an old-fashioned glass syringe that Rose could see was filled with blood. He did not speak to her, remaining uncharacteristically mute and he knelt before her. He gave her a piercing, questioning look, and she nodded her head.

"Do it," she said.

"Rose—" he croaked.

"I'm sure."

"Will it make any difference if I tell you that medicine here is nowhere nearly advanced as it is during your time? That there won't be much I can to do keep you comfortable, to prevent you from suffering from the effects of the illness?"

"Nope." She tried to copy his plosive pronunciation and attempted a playful grin.

He was not amused. "And will it matter if I say that I can't stand the thought of you being ill?"

She was touched by the sentiment, but it did not sway her. She shook her head. "'S sweet, but 'fraid not."

"Then I need you to promise me something," he said.

"That I'll be all right? 'Course I will!"

"That goes without saying."

"What, then?"

"Promise me that you'll never, ever tell your mother that I allowed you to do this, because if she found out she'd slap me into the twenty-second century."

Rose chuckled softly. "Yeah, she probably would. It's a deal." Then she slid up her sleeve and offered him her arm.

His motions were slow, almost languid, as he wiped a bit of alcohol over her skin. His hand quavered slightly when he moved the needle to her arm. He gave her one final entreating look; she nodded and offered him a gentle smile. He injected her with the infected blood.

Rose winced just a tiny bit.

"All right?" the Doctor asked, wiping the site carefully with another saturated cotton ball.

"Fine," she replied, and honestly she felt a rush of elation. She would provide the cure for the ill children, and that knowledge buoyed her considerably.

He stood and held out his hand. "Come on, then."

"Where're we goin'?"

"I told Dr. Wembur that you'd been exposed and were likely to contract the disease. I also explained that your blood might hold the cure for the others and how important it is that you have every opportunity to recover without complication. To that end, he's arranged a private suite for you. It's just down this hallway."

Rose shook her head. "I wanna help with the children until I start to feel sick."

"Most of their mothers are with them, and several of the staff have volunteered to assist—"

"There'll still be stuff I can do."

This was clearly another battle that he was not going to win. With a resigned and rather dramatic sigh, he said, "Fine. But the moment you begin to show symptoms, you're going straight to bed. And in the meantime, you're going to have a good, nutritious meal with plenty of vitamins and anti-oxidents."

"That all?"

"For now."

She slipped her hand into his, entwining their fingers in a gesture of unspoken affection and trust. He tightened his grip, intent on holding on to her as long as possible.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

The Doctor and Rose returned to the sickroom without further conversation. In truth, both were able to provide considerable assistance. Although Rose had no medical training, her instincts were superb, and she was a comforting presence to two small girls whose mothers had needed to remain at home with infant siblings. She bathed their arms and legs with cool cloths to ease the discomfort caused by the lesions. She ran gentle hands over their brows and spoke soothing words to them. She hummed and sang softly when they whimpered in pain, and she helped them drink water, tea, and juice when they were thirsty or too cold or excessively warm.

For his part, the Doctor divided his time between the young patients and the laboratory. Once Rose became ill, he would have little time to devote to anything but her care, so he wanted to ensure that all the equipment was ready in case a survivor was found.

Preparation was a challenge due to his determination to keep the details of the antitoxin creation somewhat hazy. Dr. Wembur, while aware that immunity and a possible cure could lie in the blood of those who'd fought off the disease, did not yet understand the specifics of the underlying theory. Thus, the Doctor needed to preserve the current state of scientific knowledge while ensuring that he could create the antitoxin successfully.

This required some machinations within the lab.

He also had to be certain that Rose ate the meal he'd specifically ordered for her. She was very preoccupied with her charges and told him twice that she'd take a break soon. But two hours after the food had been delivered the tray sat untouched.

When the Doctor returned to the sickroom the fifth, or possibly the sixth, time—he'd really lost track—he took the glass of juice from the tray then stood at Rose's side. She was changing Raben's brother's diaper. The older boy was very ill; his breathing was starting to become labored, and his fever was high. Ilaine, pale and fretful, hunched beside him.

"Drink this," the Doctor instructed Rose in a tone that squelched any argument from her.

She nodded and complied, taking a few small sips before setting the glass aside.

"All of it," he said as he moved to Raben's bed. He pulled the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and scanned the boy as surreptitiously as he could. No one noticed his actions; the adults were all preoccupied with the children, who were too ill to find any wonder in the small device. The Time Lord frowned as he studied the tiny blinking lights.

Dr. Wembur had been absent for hours, devoting all his attention to the Prince, who remained in the palace. One of royal staff who'd volunteered her services seemed to have some basic medical training, so the Doctor took her aside.

"Raben's having trouble breathing, and it's only going to get worse over the next twenty-four hours. All of them will likely have the same difficulties," he told her.

She nodded with concern.

"Can you prepare a poultice?" he asked.

"Yes, of course."

They discussed the local flora until he found the appropriate combination of herbs to help ease the respiratory distress. The woman hurried away to find the necessary supplies and begin the poultices.

As he stood in the middle of the room, gaze sweeping over the small, pained faces, the Doctor seriously considered the potential consequences of altering the timeline. With a single blood sample, he could return to the TARDIS and prepare an effective antitoxin within a few hours. These children could all be healthy again by morning. If he were careful, no one would know what he had done. The technology here wasn't sophisticated enough for anyone to analyze the children's blood sufficiently to determine which drugs he'd used.

But he'd seen the effects that seemingly miniscule changes wrought upon the timeline.

If any of these children were meant to die, and his advanced medicines saved them, then he could do irreparable harm to Time. Yet if none would succumb—if Rose or an elderly survivor could provide the antitoxin—then all he was doing was easing their suffering.

He walked back to Rose and rested his hand against her cheek. She had not developed a fever yet. So he still had some time.

"I'll be back in a little while," he told her.

She nodded unquestioningly, attention focused upon the baby. His ran his hand over the toddler's hair, smoothing it back from his hot forehead. Then he quietly took an empty syringe from one of the cabinets and knelt beside one of the unattended children, a boy perhaps four years old. He was sleeping. The Doctor quietly and quickly obtained a blood sample, working so gently that the child did not stir.

He pocketed the syringe then strode from the room and down the hallway to the entrance door. He pushed it open.

Three Sentries immediately spun around, hands upon their guns.

The Doctor lifted his hands in response. "No need for those. I'm helping Dr. Wembur."

One of the guards nodded. "Yes sir, we know. But no one is permitted to leave the building."

"Oh, but that doesn't apply to me. I'm just going to pop out and gather a few supplies that I need—"

"Apologies, sir, but this building is in quarantine. You need to go back inside. Orders are directly from the King."

Resigned, the Time Lord stepped back into the building. Well, there went that bright idea. Oh, he could probably sneak out through a window or temporarily stun the guards with setting 445 on the sonic screwdriver, but he had a distinct feeling—an odd yet recognizable tingle at the back of his mind—that he wasn't meant to meddle in this any more than he already was.

When he returned to the sickroom, he stood in the doorway for a few minutes observing the scene. All of the children were uncomfortable, some distressingly so, and even those few who slept were pale and wore pained expressions upon their diminutive faces. Rose worked diligently to ease their discomfort, clearly intent on her purpose. And yet he still wished she'd gone directly to the suite he'd had prepared for her. Because somewhere in her mind she was surely processing the fact that soon she'd be in the same position as these children: afflicted and aching. He wondered if she'd regret her choice.

He noticed that her food remained untouched. He waited until she'd put the baby back in his bed then slid an arm around her and guided her toward the door.

"Come Rose, it's time for a break."

"No, I'm fine," she began to protest.

"You haven't eaten any of this," he pointed out as he lifted the plate.

"I will later."

"Nope, now's better." He kept his tone light.

Still she hesitated to leave. He took her hand and urged her out the door.

"If you don't eat, the children's mothers won't, either. And everyone needs to keep up their strength," he said. "Have some of this, and when you return you can tell Ilaine and the others about it, and perhaps that'll encourage them to have something, too."

Rose sighed in acquiescence. "Fine. But I don't wanna be gone too long."

"I know."

He led her back to the room where she'd waited earlier. She sank down on the sofa, and he suddenly realized that she was tired. He did a quick mental calculation to determine how long they'd been attending to the sick and was rather surprised to discover that seven hours and sixteen minutes had passed since he'd injected Rose with the infected blood.

He sat down beside her and reached for half of the dense meat pie on the plate. "Looks good—even after sitting for a while."

Rose's gaze moved languorously to the pie. "S'pose so."

"C'mon, Rose, eat up."

She took the piece from him and had a small bite. He thought she spent a long time chewing, even for a human. He watched her, thinking that her skin looked a little pale. She seemed to move more slowly than usual, too, her hand lowering the pie back to the plate with a slight lethargy. Was that a mild tremor in her forearm?

He waited until she'd swallowed the bite of pie then poured some water from a pitcher on the side table and offered it to her.

She drank thirstily. "Mm, that's good," she said, reaching for the pitcher.

He quickly refilled her glass and watched as she downed it.

"You're thirsty," he commented.

"Yeah, s'pose so."

"Are you feeling fatigued?"

She shook her head. "No, Doctor, I'm all right. I should get back to the baby—"

She pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly as she stood.

He wrapped his hands around her shoulders and eased her back down. "Dizzy?" he asked.

She was about to shake her head again, but the concerned look her gave her seemed to encourage a degree of truthfulness. "A little," she admitted.

"Just now, or were you feeling it before?"

"Really just now."

He pressed his palm over her forehead. She was not yet feverish, but he was certain it was only a matter of time. He tilted her head up so that he could feel along her neck beneath her jawline.

"That tickles!" she said, but there was little humor in her voice.

"Glands are slightly enlarged," he reported.

"So that's it? I've got it now?" Her tone was a strange mix of expectation and fear.

"Looks like it." His tone was straight fear. But he forced himself to brighten as he added, "That means it's time for you to retire to the very posh suite I've had set up for you."

"I don't feel that bad yet. I can still help out—"

"Rose, I want you to listen to me," he said seriously. "The best way you can help now is to let the disease run its course. But that doesn't mean you have to poke at it with a big stick. Proper rest will encourage recovery, and the sooner you recover, the sooner I can make the antitoxin."

"I understand," she acknowledged.

"Think you can eat any more?" he asked, glancing at the pie.

"No, 'm really not hungry."

"Feeling nauseous?"

She shook her head. "No, jus' not in the mood to eat."

"Well, you do need to continue to nourish your body—that's going to help with your recovery considerably. But perhaps some soup would be a little more agreeable."

"Yeah, perhaps."

He took her arm and helped her to stand. She winced at the movements, and he knew without asking that the achiness was beginning. He walked her to the suite. Her lack of reaction to the lavish linens and beautiful, lustrous wood furnishings attested to her growing discomfort.

A lovely embroidered nightdress lay upon the bed. The fabric was very soft, and he held it out to her. "I'll go see about getting that soup for you, then I'll come back and tuck you in."

She nodded, taking the nightgown from him. She glanced down at it. "Pretty."

He smiled. Perhaps she wasn't feeling quite so ill after all.

* * *

When the Doctor returned, he found Rose sitting on the bed. She'd put on the nightgown and pulled a blanket over her shoulders, but she hadn't gotten beneath the sheets yet.

"Soup's coming in about twenty minutes," he said cheerily.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and her face blanched. "Thanks." Her voice was very small.

"Rose?" He walked to her quickly. "Are you feeling much worse?"

She exhaled slowly and shrugged away from the blanket. The nightgown was loose, with only thin straps looping over her shoulders. Her arms were fully exposed. Just above her right wrist he saw the beginnings of a deep red weal. She lifted her arm slightly.

"Guess that's it, then," she said, glancing down for only an instant. "Looks like it's workin'." She grinned thinly.

He nodded, taking her wrist gently. He studied the blemish for a moment then turned over her arm, inspecting the back. The skin remained smooth and flawless. He examined her left arm to find it temporarily unscathed. He knew the disease affected adults less severely and hoped that she wouldn't develop many more of the painful lesions.

"How are your legs?" he asked.

"I… I was a little afraid to look," she replied a bit abashedly.

He smiled sympathetically. "You don't have to. But I think you should let me see."

She nodded just once, and he lifted her legs to the bed, sliding the ankle-length gown up just above her knees. There was a lesion forming on her left calf, and another beside the knee.

"Well, that's not so bad," he told her.

"No?"

"Nope."

"Will I… will they be everywhere?" she asked, touching her stomach hesitantly.

"They seem to affect the extremities the most," he replied. "Do you feel something here?" He rested his hand very softly over hers.

She shook her head. "No."

He decided not to pursue the issue just now. He pulled back the covers and helped her crawl between the satiny sheets. By the time she was settled in bed, the soup had arrived. He sat beside her and held the bowl, encouraging her to eat more than the few spoonfuls of broth she slowly swallowed. He had to resort to a hint of emotional blackmail, reminding her that her speedy recovery was dependent upon her body's ability to fight off the disease, and without nutrition she would delay the process considerably.

She managed to finish most of the bowl. By the time she had, however, a fine sheen of perspiration covered her forehead and cheeks. The Doctor rested his palm over her brow.

She was running a low-grade fever.

"Try to get some sleep, Rose," he said, picking up the tray that had held the soup. "I'll check back in a little while."

She nodded gratefully and sank back against the pillows.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

Dr. Wembur had not returned to the sickroom; the ill children were left with only their mothers and a handful of volunteer Royal Staff to assist them. Aside from one woman who had studied to be a nurse, no one had any level of medical training. So the Doctor's presence was both welcomed and needed.

Raben, one of the first to fall ill, was suffering from building respiratory distress. The poultice the Time Lord had ordered eased his breathing, but the boy was still terribly uncomfortable. The Doctor knew, too, that the treatment was only a short-term solution. The pulmonary damage, as well as that to the heart and liver, would worsen as the disease progressed. Without an effective antitoxin, the child would very likely die within the next forty-eight hours.

Thus far no survivors of the previous outbreak had been located. There was still hope, of course, but finding someone who could truly help seemed less likely with each passing hour. Much as he cringed at the thought of Rose's taking on the illness, the Doctor still felt some small relief in the knowledge that she could provide the cure. Yet each child's cough, hotly fevered skin, and painful lesions reminded him that she, too, would suffer through the dangerous disease.

The Doctor had been detained in the sickroom for a long time, attending to Raben and a ten-year-old girl who had gotten up from her bed to try to help her toddler brother. The girl's legs had given out and she'd fallen, striking her arm in precisely the wrong way, resulting in a fractured ulna.

Easing the child's pain and then setting the bone had taken considerable time. When she was finally tucked back into bed, sleeping from the mild opiate he'd administered, the Doctor realized that he was long overdue to check on Rose.

He assured the anxious parents that he'd return soon and reminded them that he was still within the building if any emergencies arose. With a final check on Raben's breathing, he hurried from the sickroom and returned to Rose.

She lay against the pillows, her face flushed and damp. Her eyes were closed, and he thought she was sleeping. He moved quietly to the bed to rest his hand against her cheek. Her temperature was up, which was to be expected. He lowered the blankets to expose her arms.

The lesion on her right wrist was worse, as he'd anticipated, and it was now joined by another on her forearm. Her left arm bore two similar marks. He suppressed a groan; he'd hoped that she'd suffer minimal skin damage. The children's arms and legs were peppered with lesions, but as an adult she should bear fewer, if his understanding of the disease was accurate.

He uncovered her legs to find one more weal on the left one and two marring the right. Perhaps these would be all.

"Doctor?" Rose's voice was husky and soft.

He looked up at her. "How are you feeling?"

"Cold," she replied, reaching for the blankets. As she lifted her arm, however, she paused, eyes moving to the angry red sores. Her eyes widened, and she bit at her lip.

He took her hand, tucking it beneath the blankets as he pulled them up. "That's part of the disease," he reassured her. "They're coming on fairly quickly, which should mean that it's progressing relatively fast, and that's what we want."

She nodded. "It is."

"How much do they hurt?" he asked kindly.

"Not much. Hardly at all."

He could see the renewed resolve she was marshalling. Whatever discomfort she felt would be downplayed in his presence. He knew she would be reluctant to admit any regret, and an honest report of her condition would be tantamount to just such a confession. So he simply nodded in reply and handed her a glass of water.

She took it with a slightly shaky hand, beginning to push herself up. He slid his arm beneath her shoulders to help her, and she offered him a small smile of gratitude. She managed to drink most of the contents of the glass, but the effort exhausted her, leaving her skin pale and slicked with perspiration. She sank back against the pillows tiredly.

There was little else he could do for her at the moment. Soon she'd be truly uncomfortable as the disease began to affect her organs. Deep sleep now was really the best course of action she could take.

"How're the children doin'?" she asked as he set the glass on the night table.

"They're managing," he replied.

"Raben an' his little brother, too?"

"Yep."

She eyed him rather skeptically. "How long 'til they're really in danger?"

"Probably about thirty-six hours."

"But I'll be well by then, an' you'll be able to make the antitoxin."

He smiled in reply, concealing his fears. "The more rest you get, the sooner you'll recover. Sleep's the best thing for you now."

She closed her eyes, but she remained restless. "Not sure I can sleep," she murmured.

"Then let me help you." He lifted his hands to her head, placing his fingers upon her warm cheeks. He waited until she'd given a brief nod of acquiescence before he shifted his fingertips to her temples and used his own mind to nudge hers into slumber.

Her eyelids lowered, and in less than a minute her gentle breathing told him that she'd slipped into deep sleep. He began to pull his hands away but hesitated, needing to know what she was truly feeling. He rationalized the invasion of her thoughts with the knowledge that he could understand the progression of the disease more accurately and treat her more effectively if he had a true picture of her body's reactions.

He only required a few moments to assess the extent of her discomfort. Stoic as she remained on the surface, her subconscious reverberated with aches and anxiety. His hands left her temples, one resting over her brow and the other upon her chest. He needed to feel the life pulsing through her, the strong heartbeat that signified her robust youth and the firm hope that she could fight the disease without complication.

But the Doctor knew the real ramifications. He lifted his hands from Rose and ran them roughly through his hair.

"Damn it, Rose, what've you done?" he whispered. "And what the hell have I done?"

He wouldn't speak the words aloud; he didn't dare. But fear gnawed at him. Because if she didn't recover within thirty-six hours, then it would all be for naught. Beyond that point there'd be nothing he could do for the children, at least with the meager supplies available here.

And there was one important point that Rose had failed to consider when she'd offered herself as the cure. Even if her body could fight off the disease within the next day and a half, she'd be left very weak. To make the antitoxin in sufficient quantity to help the children within these walls, as well as the Prince, he'd require several pints of her blood, and for a completely healthy person that was asking a great deal. For someone who'd barely recovered from a serious illness, that was asking way, way too much. And that presumed that she actually recovered…

His thoughts were jarred back to the present by a soft but insistent tapping at the door. It was Ilaine. The baby had grown worse.

Hastily the Doctor left Rose's side to return to the sick children.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

Baby Wess had rubbed at the lesions on his arms, exacerbating them enough to cause considerable discomfort. However, he was not in respiratory distress, and his fever remained moderate. The Doctor mixed a soothing balm from the stock of botanicals on hand and gave it to Ilaine to apply to the child's arms and legs. The concoction calmed him, so the Time Lord made a larger batch for use with the other children. He set aside a small measure for Rose, hoping he would not need it.

"How is your friend doing?" Ilaine asked the Doctor after he had examined Raben and reassured her that his lungs sounded no worse.

"Her fever's up, and she's developed several lesions," he replied.

"I hope she won't become too ill."

He nodded. Worrying about Rose was the last thing Ilaine needed to do. So he changed the topic. "Wembur hasn't been back yet?"

She sighed. "No. Marden came in while you were with Rose and told me that the King won't allow the doctor to leave Cani's side."

"How ill is the Prince?"

"I'm not sure. We're only getting second-hand reports. But he's the only child and the heir to the throne, so the King and Queen must be terribly worried."

"Understandable. But we could use Wembur in here."

"I think we're all doing all right," Ilaine replied.

He opened his mouth to inform her that soon things would become much worse. However, he remembered Rose telling him that sometimes the blunt truth wasn't what people wanted to hear. Sometimes humans needed a softer version. He could almost hear her voice…

He clasped Ilaine's shoulder gently and said, "Yes, you're all doing a fine job. Is your husband still nearby?"

She appeared momentarily alarmed, worried perhaps that the Doctor had not been truthful about the boy's condition. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," he reassured her. "I just wanted to ask him to order some more food from the palace."

"Oh. He said he'd be just outside; they're letting him remain nearby so that he can see the children."

The Doctor once again stepped through the exterior doors, this time with his hands held out placatingly to his sides. Still he was met with an immediate blockade of four sturdy guards.

"Just need a moment with Marden," he informed them.

Raben's father stepped away from the small group and motioned for the Doctor to follow him back inside. "Are the boys worse?" he asked, professionally stern exterior melting away the instant he left his fellows.

"No, they're stable for the moment. But you need to know that within the next eight to ten hours things are going to get much worse for all of the children. We're going to need more help—skilled help. If Wembur can't assist us, we need at least one more doctor. Send word to the city, and—"

Marden shook his head. "I can't."

"No? Then tell me who can, and I'll speak to them—"

"No, Doctor, you don't understand. The illness seems contained to my village and here; Dr. Wembur thinks the outbreak began in the village, and fortunately we had some bad weather that kept everyone at home until today, so most likely there wasn't sufficient contact for it to spread elsewhere."

"That's good news, then. It's only these half-dozen children and Rose who're affected. There should be loads of other doctors and nurses willing to help out. I'm surprised no one's volunteered yet—"

"They don't know about it."

"Pardon me?"

"No one outside the village and palace has been informed, and those who know have been ordered to remain silent."

The Doctor bristled at the implication of this information. "So this quarantine isn't just for the good of the people. It's to keep the outbreak a secret. But why? Is it to avoid panic?"

"I imagine so." Marden's tone was less than convincing.

Now the Time Lord's expression darkened with building anger. "Oh, wait just one minute. It's political, isn't it?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," the Sentry hedged.

"Oh, you know exactly what I mean! If word spread that Erythrocaeleia is back and possibly originated with the Prince, the Royal Family would fall into disfavor. And there've already been rumblings about doing away with the monarchy, haven't there? The King's afraid that this outbreak will be seen as a sign of real weakness, and he can't afford that, can he?"

Marden's silence confirmed the Doctor's suppositions.

"These children need help," the Time Lord reiterated, his voice sharp with indignation. "When things get worse—and believe me, they will—my help's not going to be enough. So you're going to need to decide where your loyalties lie: with your King or with your family. And you're going to need to make that decision very, very soon, because your sons don't have a hell of a lot of time."

"Doctor, I—" Marden began.

"Excuse me," the Doctor said brusquely, "I need to check on Rose." He turned and stalked away.

Rose slept fitfully, eyes moving beneath her closed, slightly swollen lids. Her skin remained flushed and damp. The Doctor brushed his fingers softly across her brow to confirm that her temperature had risen incrementally. He resisted the urge to press his fingertips against her temples; he could judge her condition well enough through other, less invasive means.

Carefully he lowered the blankets to examine her arms and legs. Much to his relief, he found no new lesions. However, the extant ones were worsening; soon they would cause her considerable pain. He hoped that the balm would prove soothing to her, as it had to the children.

He pulled a stethoscope borrowed from the infirmary from his pocket, taking a moment to warm it in his hands before gently placing it over Rose's heart.

"'S cold," she murmured.

He looked up to see her watching him through half-opened eyes. "Really? I tried to warm it," he replied with an apologetic smile.

"With what?" she rasped.

"My hands."

She chuckled sardonically. "You do know they're probably colder than that metal?"

He grinned at her attempt at humor; if she could joke, she mustn't be too terribly uncomfortable, and he was pleased with the degree of alertness it signified. Still, he was anxious to finish his evaluation, so he shushed her for a few moments so that he could listen to her lungs, too.

"Well?" she asked when he'd removed the instrument from his ears.

He gave her a nod. He'd detected some very small signs of beginning respiratory congestion, but they were probably not yet noticeable to her. "Sounds all right. How're you feeling?"

"'Bout the same. How're the children?"

"They're managing."

He pulled the sonic screwdriver from another pocket and switched it on. He ran it rather slowly over her torso. It confirmed slight alterations in pulmonary function and alerted him to a change in her liver. He folded the blankets carefully across her hips.

"I need to have a look at your belly," he told her.

She frowned in concern. "It doesn't hurt."

"No, it shouldn't. This is just a precaution."

"Go on, then."

He undid several of the buttons on her nightgown to expose her abdomen. A single lesion stood out lividly just to the right of her navel. Damn, he hadn't been expecting that. He wondered if she felt it. She wasn't looking at him; her half-lidded gaze focused hazily on the ceiling.

He directed his concentration to his hand for a few seconds, sending extra blood to the extremity to warm it. Then he placed it at the base of Rose's ribcage and pressed gently. Just as he'd suspected, her liver was slightly enlarged.

"Doctor?" she was asking, and now she was looking at his face. "What is it?"

He smiled woodenly. "Nothing to worry about. Everything's happening just as it should."

"An' what's happenin', exactly?"

He deftly fastened the small buttons then pulled up the blankets. "The disease is running its course. And the best thing you can do is have a little more water and then a nice, long nap."

Before she could question him further, he'd slipped an arm beneath her back and eased her up so that she could drink. He didn't fail to notice that she winced with the movements; her pain was increasing. As before, the short interchange with him and the effort required to sit up and drink left her enervated. He settled her back against the pillows and tucked the covers securely about her shoulders.

"Sleep, Rose," he instructed tenderly, brushing a kiss over her brow.

This time she did not require his assistance to fall into deep slumber. He knew it wouldn't last long, however; discomfort would awaken her soon. And he wanted to remain at her side, to assuage her pain in every possible way. But he knew that he was needed in the children's sickroom; their conditions were worse.

The Doctor stood, hating to leave her yet well aware that it was necessary. If only he could have some help… But that wasn't possible. Fuming at the selfishness of the King and the unerring willingness of the Sentries to obey without rational questioning, he strode back to the sickroom and the soft, wrenching whimpers of the children.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	7. Chapter 7

He'd removed his jacket hours ago, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up past his elbows. The Doctor's hair stood up at a dozen different angles. He was the picture of disheveled concentration as he moved from one small patient to the next, checking temperatures, listening to labored little lungs and straining hearts. All of the children's livers were affected, though Raben's condition was the worst.

The Doctor had a very well-founded suspicion that the disease had not originated in the village. If that were the case, Wess would likely be as ill as his older brother, but his symptoms indicated that he was at least six hours behind in the disease's progression. This meant that he had contracted it well after his brother. It was very likely that Raben had caught Erythrocaeleia from the Prince then had brought it back to the village.

Once this realization struck, he was not particularly surprised when Marden entered the infirmary to tell him that Dr. Wembur wished to see him in the palace. Marden spared a few moments to caress each of this son's faces and give his wife a kiss upon the cheek before escorting the Time Lord from the building.

The Doctor might have considered attempting a run for the TARDIS while in the small expanse of space separating the infirmary from the palace. However, two other guards fell into step directly behind him, hands firmly upon their weapons. His assessment of the King's desire for a long and uncontested reign leapt up several notches.

The Sentries accompanied him until they reached the Prince's chamber well within the interior of the palace. Two additional Sentries stood outside the suite. One opened the door and motioned the Time Lord to enter.

The Prince's chamber was large and luxurious, with an impressive bed in the center. The décor had a degree of maturity befitting the heir to the throne, but several beautifully crafted stuffed animals sat upon cushions and chairs, and brightly colored books lined shelves along one wall. Dr. Wembur perched stiffly in a high-backed, wooden chair beside the bed. A well-dressed woman who the Doctor assumed to be the Queen sat beside the ill child, pressing a cloth over his forehead. A younger woman wearing a simple pale blue dress and while pinafore stood beside the Queen holding a bowl of water.

The young Prince was fitful, tossing about in evident distress. Even from the doorway the Doctor could hear the telltale raspiness of his breathing. The respiratory distress was advancing fast.

Wembur looked up, quickly rising from his chair and moving toward the guest.

Not unaffected by the child's plight but clearly resentful of the adults' attitudes, the Doctor's eyes lingered upon the Prince until the physician stood before him. Then he shifted his gaze coolly to the other man.

"He's worse than Raben and the others," the Time Lord informed Wembur.

"This is very serious," the physician replied. "His lungs are beginning to shut down."

"Coronary function?" the Doctor inquired succinctly.

"Poor."

"He was the first to contract it," the Doctor stated without ambiguity. "It spread from him to Raben and then to the others."

Obviously ignoring the comment, Wembur said, "We haven't found any survivors from the last epidemic. How is Miss Tyler doing?"

The Doctor nearly snorted in reply. He knew full well that the question was motivated entirely by the man's concern for the Prince; he cared little, if at all, about Rose's well-being.

"Fever's up, respiratory function is slightly depressed. Her heart's fine for the moment. Would you like to hear about her liver?" His tone bordered on scathing.

Unperturbed, Wembur simply asked, "Will she recover?"

"I hope so."

"She's been infected for less than twenty-four hours. The disease is progressing more rapidly—"

"Yes, it is. But I can't judge the severity of it yet."

"But if she recovers soon enough, you'll be able to use her blood to cure the Prince."

"And the other children," the Doctor added curtly.

"Of course. But the Prince must be our priority, and he is very, very ill."

"Let me have a look at him."

The physician hesitated for a moment. "I'm not sure that the Queen will permit it."

"She will if you tell her it's necessary to save her son's life. And believe me, at this point it probably is."

Wembur returned to the bed to speak quietly with the Queen. She had not acknowledged the Doctor's presence when he entered the room, but now she looked up at him with a nod. He moved toward the bed.

"Dr. Wembur informs me that you may be able to help Cani," she said. The timbre of her voice was rich and imperious, yet a slight quaver hinted at her deep anxiety.

"And the other sick children," the Doctor replied.

She kept the child's hand in hers but leaned back, providing tacit permission for the Time Lord to approach the boy. The Doctor assessed the Prince's condition quickly, noting the raw lesions, weak heart beat, poor respiration, and tenderness of the enlarged liver. Cani barely stirred beneath his gentle ministrations; fever and weakness kept the child from waking fully.

However, as the Time Lord carefully eased the boy back onto his pillows after listening to his lungs, Cani gave several short, dry sobs.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said gently, sparing a moment to press his fingers against the child's temple to infuse a few minutes of tranquility into the young mind.

Cani relaxed, and his breathing sounded slightly easier. The Doctor removed a small jar of balm from his pocket and handed it to the Queen.

"Put a thin layer of this on the lesions. It will soothe the pain," he instructed.

The nurse stepped forward to reach for the jar, but the Queen shook her head. "No, I'll do it." She looked up at the Doctor, her green eyes intensely deep. "Thank you, Doctor. If there is anything further you can do for my son, I implore you, please do it."

"I'm going to do everything I can to help him and the others," he replied.

She nodded then returned her attention to her son. The Doctor stepped away, moving toward the door.

"I think you should remain here," Wembur said softly, following him closely.

"No. The other children and Rose need me."

"The Prince needs you more."

"That may be, but there's no one else to look after the others. I'll send someone back with a poultice that should ease his breathing somewhat. But unless you can provide someone to help me—someone qualified—I won't leave Rose and the children again."

"Doctor, this isn't a matter of choice—"

"On the contrary, Dr. Wembur, it's entirely a matter of choice."

With that he left the room, walking quickly down the hallway, the guards following hurriedly in his wake.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	8. Chapter 8

The Doctor was back in the sickroom when Rose stumbled through the door. She was flushed, and her damp hair clung to her cheeks and forehead. Her glassy eyes roamed with little focus over the faces before her. She swayed and reached for the wall to steady herself.

"Rose!" He stood immediately and wrapped his arms about her. "You should be in bed," he chided gently, concerned that she'd felt the need to get up.

"Need to tell you somethin'," she whispered hoarsely.

He was already turning her toward the door to lead her back to her room. "Yes? And what's that?"

"Hurts," she said in a tiny, apologetic voice.

He could feel the heat of her skin and knew that her fever was much higher. The lesions on her arms had worsened, too, and he was sure they were one source of her pain. Keeping an arm around her, he reached for a jar of salve and dropped it into his pocket.

Ilaine was now standing next to them, expression full of concern. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"No, just stay with your children. I'm going to take her back to bed." He didn't intend to be brusque, but his words were curt. He almost expected Rose to rebuke him good-naturedly, but of course she wasn't really listening.

Her eyes roamed around the room. "Sick," she mumbled. "They're sick."

"Yes, dear," Ilaine said kindly, "and so are you. But the Doctor's taking care of everyone, and they're all…" She swallowed and drew a breath. "They're all going to be fine. And you are, too."

Rose nodded weakly. "Fine. 'S why I'm sick, so they'll be fine." Her voice was barely audible.

"Come on, Rose, back to bed now," the Time Lord said, lifting her weak body easily into his arms.

Ilaine held the door for him then hurried back to her sons. The Doctor carried Rose to the suite and set her carefully upon the bed. The sheets and blankets were in disarray; she'd clearly been tossing and turning for some time. He cursed himself silently for failing to provide the comfort he'd promised. But recriminations weren't going to help her now, so he shook them away in favor of more useful activities.

With a few words of explanation, he applied the salve to her arms and legs, sparing a few moments to ensure that his hands were warm before touching her. She watched him languidly, eyes barely focused. Although he kept his touch light, she winced as his fingertips moved over the lesions.

"I'm sorry, Rose," he told her. "It'll stop hurting soon, I promise."

She nodded, her belief and trust in him unwavering. But was in warranted? Did he deserve it? Because he could have prevented this, kept her well and focused his own efforts upon finding a survivor who carried natural immunity.

He unbuttoned her nightgown and smoothed a bit of salve over the lesion on her belly. He almost permitted himself to feel a tiny measure of comfort as he noted that the rest of her skin remained unblemished. But when he moved his hand up to press it softly over her liver, the condition of the vital organ crushed the small degree of hope he'd felt.

Forcing a calm exterior, he pulled the blankets over her and offered her a tight smile. She was still looking at him, albeit it rather blearily, and she smiled in return.

"Thanks. Feels better," she murmured quietly.

"I'm glad." He managed to keep his voice steady, and his hand did not waver as he ran the sonic screwdriver over her chest then changed the setting and shone it into her eyes.

She blinked and tried to turn away, but he held her head gently. "Let me see, Rose."

"Bright," she croaked.

"I know. I'm sorry." He tucked the device back into his pocket, relieved that there were no overt signs of jaundice. He'd been frightened of that; if her liver failed, there would be no turning back, no recovery without his and the TARDIS's assistance.

He checked her heart and lungs, and was left feeling concerned but knowing that neither presented a grave danger to her at the moment. He judged her to be entering the most dangerous stage of the disease, however. The next few hours would be critical.

Rose's eyes closed, and the Doctor sank back in his chair. He took her hot hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a soft kiss over her knuckles. He wondered how many times he'd held this small hand and led it from danger. Just as often, though, he'd led her into peril, and today was no exception. But unlike many other instances in which they'd escaped by some quirk of fate, there was a guaranteed salvation from this situation.

He had powerful medications in the TARDIS that would improve her heart, lung, and liver function in a matter of minutes. Or he could create an antitoxin in less than an hour and cure her completely, as well as the children, before sunset.

Curing Rose presented no risk to the timeline; there was no premonitory prickle deep within his mind when he considered this option. But the thought of giving the children an antitoxin created in the ship's lab caused a slight psychic tremor, and he strongly suspected that this option would have adverse effects upon all involved.

The Prince, Raben, Wess, the other ill toddler and his sister would not survive without the antitoxin. He was certain of this. The other three children's chances seemed incrementally better, but their successful recoveries were by no means assured.

The Time Lord closed his eyes, trying to hone in on his vision of Time, but his mind reeled with sensations of Rose: her raspy breathing, her hot skin, the whoosh of blood from her laboring heart. But maybe it was all intertwined; maybe he was meant to wait, to allow her to accomplish what she'd set out when she'd unselfishly offered herself as the means to a cure.

Problem was, he'd never been much good at waiting, particularly when someone he cared about was in danger and he had the ability to help.

"All right, Rose," he whispered, "we'll do it your way for now. But if I think for one second that you're in real danger, that there's any chance you won't…" He couldn't speak the word aloud. "Well, I won't let that happen," he continued softly. "I'll do whatever I have to do to make sure that doesn't happen. You're going to be all right."

* * *

He felt certain that Rose's mind was willing to comply with his edict, but her body appeared less cooperative. Just as he'd suspected, her condition deteriorated over the next three hours.

The children, too, were much worse, and he was compelled to devote some of his time and efforts to their care. Each moment that forced him away from Rose was wrenching, but the rational part of his mind knew that the young patients needed him more.

Still, when Rose began to show clear signs of respiratory distress, the Doctor determined that he would do all that he could to ease her discomfort. He lay a pungent poultice over her chest and rested a cool compress against her fiery forehead. He sat anxiously at her side until he was summoned back to the sickroom to attend Raben. The boy's condition was grave; without the antitoxin, he would succumb to the disease in less than twenty-four hours. Even with the medication, full recovery was highly unlikely, but his life might be spared.

Again the Doctor longed for the TARDIS, for the wondrous drugs and equipment stocked within the ship's infirmary. Every one of these children could be cured with no lasting effects—except for those wrought upon the timeline.

When he returned to Rose, she was moving restlessly, making small noises that reflected her discomfort. She wasn't fully conscious, but when he spoke to her she seemed to quiet slightly. As he'd done for several of the sickest children, the Doctor placed his fingertips against her temples and sent soothing signals to her fevered brain.

He hadn't intended to sense her thoughts, but they washed over him suddenly. Fear and pain were strong, nudging at him almost of their own volition. Beneath them, nearly buried yet flickering weakly, was determination. Some small part of her still knew that her efforts weren't in vain.

He wasn't so sure. There was so little time, and she was so ill. Fever raged through her, and the next hour saw him laying cold cloths over her body and coaxing her dry lips to part and her raw throat to swallow some water. He thought he'd have given one of his remaining lives for a single saline IV. Proper hydration would go a long way toward enhancing her body's ability to fight the disease.

As she lay writhing beneath the damp towels, breaths ragged and sharp, and heart toiling to keep up its steady rhythm, he clasped her hand to his chest. "You're going to be all right," he told her in a quavering voice. "You can fight this, Rose. It's what you set out to do. You're going to save the day, just like always, 'cause that's what you do. Those children—" His voice caught.

Those children, in fact, were almost beyond help. Raben had perhaps twelve hours before his liver and lungs shut down completely. There would be no turning back from that, not with the meager supplies and equipment here. The boy's fever, too, was dangerously high, and there was a risk of neurological damage. He wondered briefly how the Prince was faring.

When Ilaine burst through the door, not even bothering to knock courteously as she had before, he knew that the situation had turned very grave.

"Raben," she uttered through ashen lips. "Doctor, please—"

He stood, his fingers unwilling to release Rose's hand. He forced them to unclasp then turned to the distraught mother. "I'm coming."

The boy was having a febrile seizure. More cooling cloths were packed around his frail body, and the Doctor instructed Ilaine to continue to give him fluids if possible. He rummaged through the infirmary's cabinets, tossing items aside without care in search of something, anything to help.

He could make a crude IV using rubber tubing, a large needle, and a jar. Creating saline wouldn't be difficult, either; the lab had the proper equipment. And it might just buy Raben a little more time. He'd make one for Rose, too.

He dashed into the hallway, pausing for a moment before the exterior doors. He could make a run for it, push past the guards and disable them with the sonic screwdriver. If he ran, he could reach the TARDIS in just over an hour and bring it back here.

The door swung open, and Marden stepped inside. "Doctor. You must come to the palace now. Dr. Wembur needs you."

Fear, anger, and fatigue made him completely candid. "No. I need to get back to my ship and get proper medical supplies."

"Your ship?" Marden repeated. "No, you can't leave. You've got to come to the palace—"

"It's the only way. I can't save them otherwise." His hand raked through his hair; his eyes were large with desperation.

"But Ilaine said you could. She said Miss Tyler would be able to—"

"There's not time. She's very ill, and she might not…" He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "You have to let me go."

"I can't."

"Where does you loyalty lie?" he spat.

Marden opened his mouth. "It's…"

Three other guards pushed through the door. "Well? What's taking so long?" one asked.

"He says he needs to go back to his ship," Marden explained succinctly, "to get the right medicines."

"No one leaves," the guard said firmly. "Doctor, you're needed at the palace."

The Doctor shook his head. "No."

"This isn't open to discussion," retorted the Sentry.

"What are you going to do? Shoot me?" He held out his arms. "Go ahead! See how much good that does!"

"We can force you," the guard began.

The Doctor laughed shortly without mirth. "Oh, I suppose you can, but you can't force me to help the Prince once I'm there."

Hands moved to weapons, and the Doctor realized that he's lost the battle to return to the TARDIS. However, he wasn't prepared to lose the entire war. He took a breath and straightened. "I'm going to the lab to begin some medicine that'll help until I can create the antitoxin. There's nothing I can do for the Prince if you force me to go to the palace. But as soon as I've finished here I'll send the supplies to Wembur. They'll help."

The guards hesitated, hands still poised upon their weapons. But when the Time Lord turned abruptly and stalked off to the lab, no one tried to stop him.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	9. Chapter 9

The Doctor cobbled together several workable IVs with sufficient saline to hydrate the sickest patients. He sent one to the palace with brief written instructions for Wembur, hoping the physician was competent to introduce the line successfully. He didn't want to see any harm befall the young Prince, but there wasn't time for him to oversee the procedure himself.

With a few words to assuage Ilaine's fears upon seeing the strange device, he rigged a stand and gently inserted the line into Raben's arm. Wess and the other toddler, as well as the sickest girl, also received the hydrating solution. That done, the Doctor returned to Rose.

Her condition was unchanged. He hung the jar from the high headboard then quickly and efficiently, yet with sufficient care to ensure that he left no bruise, inserted the needle into her hand. She flinched momentarily and made a little noise.

"Sshh, Rose, everything's fine. I'm just giving you some fluids. They'll help you to feel better." He secured the line in place with a narrow strip of cloth bandage, wishing he'd thought to toss a few more modern sticking plasters into one of his copious pockets.

He sat back for a moment. He'd done all he could—hadn't he? But Rose needed more. The children's recovery depended entirely upon her. Maybe he should still try to get to the TARDIS… But that seemed like a foolish plan. If one of the guards shot him in blind zeal to obey the King's directive, he wouldn't be able to help anyone. If only he had something to boost her immunity, to nudge her body in the right direction.

He removed the cloth from her forehead and dipped it into the bowl of water at the bedside. Before reapplying to her brow, he placed his palm against her cheek, taking a moment to adjust the temperature of his extremities so that his hand would feel particularly cooling against her hot skin.

She drew a shuddering breath at the touch then exhaled slowly.

"Too cold?" he murmured, retracting his hand. He stared at the appendage for a few seconds. He could control his own physiology; if he were ill, he could instruct his body to produce phagocytes to reduce the infection significantly. As a human, of course, Rose, could not accomplish this feat.

He sighed, eyes moving to her face. Several strands of hair lay damply across her brow. He brushed them away with his fingertips, permitting them to linger against her temple. His eyes widened momentarily as an idea began to burble at the back of his mind.

Yes, Rose was human and could not exert any real control over the inner workings of her body, but some humans could learn to alter their heart rates and brain waves through deep meditation. And _he _could delve into her mind; he'd already eased her discomfort somewhat using this process. In part it involved slight shifts in her organs' function.

It was possible—remotely, he admitted, but still—that he might be able to direct her mind so that it could guide her body to a much greater extent. If he could just encourage her bone marrow to increase lymphocyte production, she could fight the infection more effectively.

He had never attempted such a deep psychic and physical connection with a human. If she were a Time Lord, he would know precisely what to do to spur her body into action. The neural pathways would be clear, and he would be able to tap into each system without significant difficulty. As a human, though, Rose's mind and body would resist his efforts to direct it; that was simply human nature. Yet if he could transcend that initial barrier, there was a very slim chance that his plan could work.

He knew it was a long shot, but he and Rose had faced similar odds before.

The Doctor drew a deep breath and leaned forward to rest his fingers against her temples. He felt the heat of her fever, the deep aches throughout her limbs, the weight of her chest. He delved a bit deeper, finding her heartbeat without difficulty. He concentrated his efforts on altering her heart marginally, just to see if he could. The pulse beneath his fingertip slowed.

"Yes, Rose," he breathed. "That's it. I'm going to help you, but you have to allow me into your mind completely." As he spoke the words, he sent their meaning into her mind as well.

There was a little spark of defiance, a small flash that nearly caused his own mind to stumble back.

"Rose," he whispered, "it's all right. Trust me." He lowered his head to press a soft kiss over her brow.

The resistance ebbed and gradually dissipated.

The Doctor focused further, and soon he could sense other major organs. He winced at the state of her liver and nearly recoiled at the toxins coursing through her bloodstream as a result of poor liver and kidney function. The saline would help with that, providing much-needed hydration and a boost to her kidneys. Indeed, a few moments of intense concentration showed him that it was already beginning to work.

He found the link to her bones and channeled all his psychic energy into spurring them to enhance production of cytotoxic T and B cells within their marrow, visualizing the configuration, chemical and cellular structure of each. So powerful was his concentration that, for a matter of minutes, he sensed nothing else but the delicate, intricate workings of Rose's body.

Finally it was time for him to withdraw from her mind. He'd accomplished all he could. Gradually sensation returned to him, and he felt the heat of her skin beneath his fingers and heard the raspiness of her breath echo in his ears.

He opened his eyes. Rose's flushed cheeks and brow met his gaze. Slowly he shifted his fingers from her temples, permitting them to caress her cheeks for a moment before he sat back in his chair.

His face was slick with perspiration, and he was ineffably exhausted. He poured water into a cup and drank thirstily despite the tremor in his hands. Then he stood on shaky legs.

"I'll be back soon," he told Rose, clasping her hand briefly. "Just rest."

Reluctantly he left her, hoping beyond hope that his efforts had not been in vain.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	10. Chapter 10

The saline drips were helping the children minimally, but he thought the simple solution would buy them at least a little time. The Doctor glanced back at the wan faces in the sickroom as he stepped through the door. Just a few more hours… Silently he entreated them to hold on, to keep fighting.

He walked to the lab and checked the microscope one more time, ensuring that it was ready the moment he obtained the blood sample from Rose. Perhaps he was dragging his heels a bit, but he wanted to be sure he'd waited long enough for the leukocyte production to increase before looking for objective proof. Because if she was no closer to recovery, it meant that he'd failed her, failed the children and the Prince, failed everyone.

He patted his pocket to be certain that he had the syringe then shuffled from the lab to Rose's suite. Her position in the bed remained unchanged, and she was still flushed with high fever.

He sat beside her and folded the blanket back from her arm. The lesions remained, of course, but they were no worse. He slipped on his glasses and peered down. Actually, unless he was very much mistaken, the sores appeared slightly smaller. But maybe that was just wishful thinking.

He inserted the needle into her arm gently and withdrew a small amount of blood. As he pulled the syringe away, Rose flinched.

"Rose?" He twisted his head sharply to look at her face.

Her eyes remained closed, but her lips parted. He waited anxiously, hoping for a word or two; her voice was the most beautiful sound he could imagine at the moment. However, all he heard was her harsh breathing.

Defeated and depressed, he stood and left the room with halting steps. He returned to the lab, forcing himself to prepare the slide then bend over the microscope. He anticipated nothing; there would be no change, no evidence of improvement.

Glasses in place, he stared through the lens. He blinked then slid a finger under his spectacles to rub at the dampness in his eye. Slowly he straightened, removing his glasses and folding them with care. He blinked again at the tears, then his face broke into a grin.

"Brilliant!" he cried, hopping to his feet. "Oh, Rose Tyler, you are fantastic!" He clapped his hands and whirled about.

"Doctor?" Ilaine stepped cautiously through the door. "I heard you cry out. Is something wrong?"

He wrapped his arms around her and swung her into a hug. "Nope, something's very, very right."

She looked up at him. "Is… is Rose better?"

"She will be, thanks to those lovely, luscious, lavish leukocytes lunging through her bloodstream."

"I don't understand—"

He took a step back, sobering as he recalled that Rose's recovery was only the first step. There was no guarantee at this point that he would be able to save all of the children.

"It looks like she's fighting off the illness," he explained simply.

"Then you'll be able to treat the children?"

He offered her a small, sad smile. "I hope so. I'm going to do everything that I can."

"You've already done so much," she said, voice raw with emotion and fatigue.

He wrapped an arm about her shoulder and led her back to the sickroom. "I'm not going to stop," he assured her.

* * *

While the children grew sicker, Rose's condition began to improve. When the Doctor checked on her an hour after analyzing her blood, he found her fever slightly reduced and her breathing less labored. He removed the IV line, noting that the lesions were indeed smaller and less raw.

The best sign of all, however, was the open eyes and tired smile that greeted him when he entered the room several hours later.

"Hello!" he said with a rush of joy upon seeing that she was alert again.

She tried to croak out a reply, but her throat was terribly dry. He hastened to lift her head and hold a glass of water to her lips. She was still too weak to do these small tasks for herself, but she managed to take several swallows then get a few words out.

"How're… the children?"

He lowered her head to the pillow and set the glass aside before meeting her eyes. "They're very ill, but everyone's made it this far."

"Wanna… help."

"I know, and you will, but we need to wait a little while." He rested his hand against her cheek. "You're still running a fever."

"But… 'm better," she protested feebly.

"Yes, you are," he smiled at her. "But I can't make the antitoxin until you've overcome this completely. You're not quite there yet."

She opened her mouth to object, but he silenced her with a finger across her lips.

"No arguments, Rose. Best thing you can do now is rest and start to get some of your strength back. I'm going to send for some nice, nutritious broth, and I want you to drink as much water as you can. Staying hydrated'll help a lot."

He gave her some more water, cradling her head in his hand. When she'd finished he could see that the brief visit had tired her considerably. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Sleep now, Rose."

She presented no objections. Her eyes closed immediately. He sat for a few moments watching her. Yes, she was better. Full recovery, however, was still days away.

But the children didn't even have hours, let alone days. He would need to make the antitoxin within the next seven or eight hours if it was to be of any use at all. While it was possible that Rose's system would have created sufficient antibodies by then, he knew that she would be in no condition to give up the amount of blood required to create enough antitoxin for all of the children.

He and Rose had passed one hurdle; now another equally challenging one awaited. The Doctor, genius that he was, had absolutely no idea how he and Rose could face it.

* * *

Four hours later the Doctor took another small blood sample from Rose. This time she was awake and alert when he slipped the needle into her arm. She was sitting up partially, head propped against several pillows. Her temperature was nearly normal, and her heart and lungs sounded much stronger. She'd swallowed a bowl of broth and two glasses of water, too. He was pleased with her progress and knew that she was as well.

She watched him as he dabbed at the tiny puncture after withdrawing the needle. "Think I'm almost well now," she told him.

"We'll see what your blood shows," he replied.

"I feel much better," she reassured him.

"I'm glad. But that doesn't necessarily mean that you've produced sufficient antibodies to help the children." He stood.

"Come back an' tell me as soon as you know," she urged.

He nodded then hurried away to the lab. When he saw clear evidence that her body had conquered the disease, he felt a mixture of elation and dread. Her blood held the cure, but she was so weak…

He checked the equipment needed to produce the antitoxin then returned to the sickroom. He only required a brief look at Raben to know that the child was in the final stages of the disease. Still, he forced himself to calculate the odds, to make an educated guess about how long the boy had. By all accounts, the child would not survive the day.

"Doctor!" A sharp, deep voice drew his attention.

He turned to see Wembur standing in the doorway. He wasn't surprised; the Prince, of course, would be even sicker than Raben. Still, he walked with measured steps to the door and slipped out into the hallway with the physician.

"Miss Tyler has recovered," Wember said with anxious excitement.

"Not quite—"

"But enough! I've just seen her. She's lucid and the fever's gone."

"She's still very weak."

"But she's overcome the illness. That means the cure is in her blood. There's no time to waste; the Prince's condition is extremely grave. He needs the antitoxin now."

"Rose isn't ready," the Doctor protested. "She needs to regain some strength before she's subjected to that degree of blood loss."

"That degree?" Wembur repeated. "We only need a small amount—"

"No, we don't. We need at least three pints to make sufficient doses for all the children."

"I don't understand. You said her blood would cure them."

"And it will. But not the way you're thinking." The Doctor hesitated to reveal too much information, knowing that local scientists would make the necessary discoveries on their own within the next dozen years. "There's not time to explain at the moment."

"No, there's not. This needs to be done now."

"I'm sorry, but that's not possible."

Wembur's hand shot up in a beckoning gesture and four Sentries appeared almost instantly. "The Prince needs this now," the physician reiterated. "I'm afraid you've got no choice in the matter."

The Sentries had withdrawn their weapons.

"Oh, for the love of—" the Doctor muttered. "Why must it always be guns?"

"Doctor, please," Wembur urged. "Just get on with it."

"I told you I can't! Rose isn't ready yet."

"Then just take enough to create the antitoxin for the Prince."

The Doctor glared at Wembur with no discernable effect. "Even the loss of one pint could be very dangerous to her at this point."

"It can't be helped." The physician began to walk toward Rose's suite.

The Doctor did not move.

"Doctor?" Wembur turned back.

"I won't do it until she's stronger. Give me another three hours."

When it became clear that the Time Lord had no intention of leaving the spot to which he appeared rooted, Wembur addressed the guards. "Don't let him move."

"Where the hell are you going?" the Doctor called.

"To get the Prince's cure."

The Doctor could not bear the thought of Wembur's hands upon Rose, stealing her life as he took her blood. The quack would probably have no idea when to stop, and there was a very real possibility that he could kill her.

"Wait!" the Doctor cried.

Wembur turned sharply.

"I'll do it," the Doctor capitulated. "But only one pint. That should be enough to begin treatment for the Prince and the three sickest children here. The others should be able to wait a bit longer."

Wembur nodded in satisfaction. "Thank you, Doctor. I'm glad you're a reasonable man after all."

Accompanied by Wembur and the Sentries, the Doctor gathered the necessary equipment from the lab then went to Rose's chamber.

"They stay outside," he said firmly, nodding toward the guards.

"One will enter with me," Wembur replied authoritatively. "The others may remain out here, but they'll enter immediately if I call for them."

The small party stepped into the suite. Rose had been dozing but woke, eyes widening at the unexpected visitors. "Doctor?" she questioned.

"It's all right," he replied, moving swiftly to the bed. "It's time for me to begin the antitoxin. Dr. Wembur wants to watch. Scientific curiosity and all that." He offered her a tight smile.

"Thought you said we'd have to wait a while longer," she reminded him.

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Plans change. Turns out the Prince can't wait much longer."

Rose nodded. "Get on with it then." She pulled her arm from beneath the covers.

He sat down in the chair beside the bed, taking time to wipe alcohol thoroughly at the crook of her arm. "I want you to stay as still as possible," he told her, "and don't try to sit up."

"'Kay."

Carefully he inserted the large needle beneath her skin, easily finding the vein. She didn't even flinch. He adjusted the rubber tubing then watched with a sick feeling in his gut as Rose's blood began dripping into the jar he'd set upon the floor. He squeezed her hand gently.

After a few minutes he moved his fingers to press over her wrist, awareness focused upon her pulse. She could probably spare a scant pint of blood without any severe reactions. He'd see to it that she ate again and boosted her glucose levels with some juice the instant he'd obtained the blood. She'd be left even weaker, but he thought she'd be all right. And with that one precious pint, he could create several doses of the antitoxin, enough for the Prince, Raben, and one or two other children. With luck, a single dose would be sufficient to stave off the final stage of the disease.

Tomorrow he would return to the TARDIS, guards or no guards, and fetch iron supplements, vitamins, and synthetic plasma for Rose. With those fortifications, she should be able to donate another pint of blood with relative safety.

As the jar filled slowly, Rose's pulse weakened. Her skin began to grow pale and cool. She'd been watching him and the visitors, but eventually her eyelids fluttered, and her breathing grew more shallow.

The Doctor reached for the stethoscope, the rapid motion causing the guard's hand to jerk to his gun. With an indignant glower the Time Lord lifted the instrument then adjusted it in his ears.

Rose opened her eyes when he pressed it over her heart. "What?" she asked softly, her voice only a whisper.

"Shush, Rose," he said gently. "Just rest."

She exhaled a sigh and closed her eyes again. He listened to the soft beat for several seconds then lifted his head. Purposely he set aside the instrument then pulled the needle from Rose's arm.

"That's enough," he said.

"The jar isn't full," Wembur protested.

"It's enough," the Doctor repeated. "She can't give any more. This has already seriously weakened her."

Wembur relented. "How long will it take you to create the antitoxin?"

"A couple of hours."

"Then please, get to work."

"She needs something to eat. See to it that she gets some more broth and some dry toast and juice within the next hour."

The physician nodded. "Of course." He appeared much relieved. "Thank you, Doctor."

With one final glance at Rose, the Time Lord left to begin preparing the antitoxin.

* * *

The Doctor used the sonic screwdriver to encourage the blood to clot much faster than it would on its own. Once he'd accomplished that, he transferred it to the hand-operated centrifuge. The motion of the simple machine would succeed in fully separating the serum from the red blood cells. In this serum lay the cure to the children's illness.

He spun the centrifuge, counting silently until he felt sufficient time had passed to complete the process. He lifted one of the glass tubes from the machine and grinned.

"Oh, I'm good!"

Really it was a fairly simple process, but the joy he felt at its success still warranted a comment or two. He spent a few more minutes preparing the serum for injection. He'd been left alone in the lab, which was something of a relief; having to hide his actions from curious eyes would have delayed the process.

Funny, though; he'd halfway expected Wembur to insist upon watching. Of course the Prince was terribly ill, and the physician had probably returned to the palace to attend his royal patient.

The Doctor filled four syringes completely then divided the remaining dose among two. He'd send one full syringe to the palace, then administer the other full dosages to Raben, Wess, and the other ill baby. The smaller doses would be given to the next sickest children. The other two could wait until he'd prepared another batch.

He walked quickly to the sickroom. Ilaine looked up anxiously from Raben's bedside.

"I have it," the Doctor proclaimed, holding up one of the syringes.

"Thank the Lord," she replied, clasping her hands before her.

The Doctor quickly administered the antitoxin to the young patients. "We should begin to see some improvements within the next four to six hours," he told her. "Tomorrow I'll prepare some more for the others. I think they'll be all right until then if we continue the saline."

"Thank you, Doctor. Could you find Marden and tell him that you've given the children the medicine? He was just here a few minutes ago. I think he's still in the building."

"Of course." He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and spared a moment to brush a hand over Raben's head.

He met Marden in the hallway. He gave the Sentry a grin and said, "I've given the boys the antitoxin."

Marden breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you. I was afraid you wouldn't finish… in time."

"I need to get this to Wembur," he said, holding up the remaining syringe. "Could you get one of the Sentries to take it to the palace?"

"Dr. Wembur's still here," Marden replied.

"What?"

"He's with Rose. I thought you'd asked him to stay with her—"

The Doctor's expression darkened. He was already walking toward the suite. "How long's he been in there with her?"

"I'm not sure. I saw him go in with you a couple of hours ago. I don't think he's come out."

Hearts racing with fear and ire, the Doctor flung open the door. Wembur perched in the chair beside the bed. At his feet sat a jar half filled with blood that dripped languidly from the tube in Rose's arm. The deep contrast between the dark tube and her ashen skin was distressing.

"You son of a bitch !" cried the Doctor, shoving aside the two Sentries just inside the doorway, heedless of the weapons they'd immediately drawn. He stormed to the bed, grabbing Wembur by the shoulders and wrenching him away from Rose. "What the hell have you done?" he cried.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	11. Chapter 11

Rose was white, her skin waxen and cold. The Doctor quickly pulled the needle from her bruised arm. A drop of blood oozed slowly from the site; by some miracle, her heart was still beating. He pressed his fingers against the pulse point in her throat. The beat was alarmingly slow and weak. He reached back to the night table for the stethoscope, fingers brushing against something smooth and cool. He glanced over, eyes widening in horror when he saw the full jar of blood.

"Two?" he gasped, utterly appalled. "You took two more pints from her?"

"I told you that one wasn't enough," Wembur replied.

"The hell it wasn't! I've already administered the antitoxin to the sickest children, and I have a dose for the Prince, too—"

"The King wants you to treat all of them. We want this situation to end well, with everyone recovering successfully."

"I had every intention of doing that," the Doctor spat.

"I'm sure you did. But the King has more expedient ideas."

"Oh, I see," the Doctor retorted sharply. "How lovely, how positively perfect. Everybody lives, everyone's okay and hunky-dory, and no one's the wiser about the recurrence of the disease or where it started. Or wait, have I got that wrong? Maybe word spreads—maybe it already has. But the King's staff will create a marvelous cure, and the parents will be thrilled, and everyone will think the King is a big ol' hero, oh yes indeed, King Cure 'Em All. Have I got it right?"

"Tell me honestly, Doctor. Can you guarantee that all the children would survive if you'd waited?"

"I can guarantee that Rose would have." He reached for her cold, limp hand.

"I am sorry. Truly, I am." There was a hint of deep emotion in the man's tone. "But sometimes one person must make a sacrifice for the good of others. I understand that Miss Tyler exposed herself to the illness willfully, with the express purpose of helping the children. That's just what she's going to do. I imagine she'll be heralded as a heroine—"

"Rose didn't intend to give her life for this!"

Fury roiled through him. His hands shook as he shoved the stethoscope's earpieces into place. He pressed the end over her chest, listening to the frail, irregular beat. She was badly hypovolemic, her body literally drained of crucial fluid volume. A young, healthy person would be in some danger with this degree of blood loss. A weak individual would face death.

He'd set the syringe upon the night table. He barely noticed as Wembur snatched it up and left the room. He heard the physician's instructions to the guards; they were to escort the Doctor back to the lab immediately to prepare the next batch of serum.

His hands were on Rose's face, gripping her pale, cold cheeks. As his fingers pressed against her temples, he saw a chasm, stretching down, down, down with no bottom in sight.

"No, Rose," he beseeched, "you can't go. Please, you have to try… you have to hang on."

Tears were hot against his cheeks, but he did not notice. When one of the guards placed a firm hand upon his shoulder he stiffened and turned his head to glare with unflinching menace at the intruder. "Leave," he commanded.

The Sentry hesitated. "You have to come with us—"

"No."

"I'm sorry, Sir," the Sentry said, clearly moved by the scene before him, "but it's the King's orders."

"No."

"Sir, I don't want to force you, but there's nothing more you can do for her. I was a soldier, and I saw battle, and I know when someone's dying—"

"Shut up! You don't know anything!"

"Please, sir—"

A familiar voice interjected. "It's all right. I'll see that he follows the King's orders."

Some part of his tortured, bereft mind realized that Marden was speaking. He returned his full attention to Rose, stroking her cheek and murmuring softly to her. Somewhere far away he heard voices, but they were unimportant. All that mattered was Rose.

"Doctor," Marden was saying, a gentle hand resting against his back. "What can we do? Is there any way to help her?"

The Time Lord spared him a glance, suddenly realizing that they were alone in the room. "You've sent them away?" he asked.

"For now. We have a little time. So tell me, is there anything you can do for her?"

The Doctor took a deep breath then hauled himself to his feet. He swallowed, hard. "No." His eyes moved to the jar and its crimson contents. "But there may be something you can do."

"Of course, anything."

The Doctor grabbed the Sentry's arm and pricked him with an unused needle. As soon as the blood began to well, he dabbed at it with his finger then lifted his hand to his mouth. His tongue darted over the blood. "AB positive."

"What?"

The Doctor rubbed at his eye. "You're not compatible."

"I'm sorry. What are you planning?"

"A transfusion. If I can find a compatible donor, I may be able to save her."

"I'll get Ilaine." Marden swept from the room, returning less than a minute later with his bemused wife.

"Doctor? Oh, Lord, Rose!" the woman said upon seeing the prone, still form upon the bed. "What's happened?"

"She needs blood," the Doctor replied shortly. "Give me your hand."

Without question the woman complied. The needle darted beneath her skin, then Doctor tasted the scarlet drop. "O. You're type O."

Ilaine shook her head. "I don't know what you mean…"

"I mean that you're compatible! You can save her life."

Ilaine appeared shocked, but she nodded. "Just tell me what to do."

* * *

The Doctor rushed back to the lab to retrieve the necessary equipment then quickly set up the transfusion. Ilaine sat stoically in the chair beside Rose's bed after sending her husband to stay with the children.

In any other circumstance, the Time Lord would not have dreamt of doing a direct transfusion. With this method it was very difficult to determine precisely how much blood Ilaine was donating. Despite his extreme concern for Rose, he knew that he could not permit the other woman to give her more than a pint and a half. He couldn't, and wouldn't, place anyone else in danger.

If Rose didn't show improvement by the time Ilaine demonstrated signs of weakness, he'd stop the transfusion and find someone else to donate additional blood. A part of him actually hoped that Wembur was compatible; he'd love to jab the needle into the physician's arm, imparting a nasty bruise just as the man had left on Rose with his careless actions.

But he pushed aside vengeful thoughts, focusing his attention on Rose and Ilaine. Rose's skin remained cool, but the frightening cold had gone. That was definitely a positive sign. Her pulse was just a bit stronger, too.

"Is it helping?" Ilaine asked.

The Doctor nodded. "Yes. Thank you. How're you feeling?"

"I'm all right."

Actually she was quite pale, and it occurred to the Time Lord that she probably hadn't eaten a proper meal—if anything at all—since her children had fallen ill. She hadn't slept, either. He took her wrist gently, noting that her skin was cool, too. Her pulse was a little weak as well.

"I don't think you'll be able to give her much more," he said.

"Oh, I'm fine, really. And if it's helping her, then I want to keep going."

"Ilaine—"

"Really, Doctor," she said, voice rich with sincerity, "this is the least I can do. You and Rose have given us so much. Please, let me do this for you and her."

Against his better judgment, he permitted her to continue. Rose was, in fact, improving. Her heartbeat was marginally stronger, and her color was a tiny bit better. He felt there was a good chance that she would survive. He knew she'd remain very weak, but it seemed the dire peril was passing. He spared a few moments to rest his hand against her cheek, fingertips at her temple. The chasm he'd seen before was now a fissure, and with concentration he could perceive the bottom. In the darkness there were swirls of vague sensation and hazy impressions of shards of memory.

"That's it, Rose," he told her. "Just keep fighting."

A small noise behind him caused him to lift his head. Ilaine was slumping down in the chair, rapidly sliding to the ground. He leaned over quickly and wrapped his arms about her, pulling her back up.

"Ilaine?" he said, checking her pulse. It was thready. She did not respond to his queries. "Damn it," he muttered, angry at himself. He'd gone too far.

He removed the needle from her arm and carried her around to the other side of the large bed. He lay her down gently. As he spread a blanket over her, he noticed the slight swell of her belly; it had been hidden before by the cut of her dress. He scanned her quickly with the sonic screwdriver.

"Oh Ilaine," he said softly, "why didn't you tell me?"

He rested his hand over her abdomen and closed his eyes. He could still perceive a wisp of a second life within her, but it was very weak. He sighed. This tale, it seemed, simply could not have a happy ending for all.

The Doctor sat beside the bed for some time. Once or twice he heard voices in the hallway, but no one entered the room. Marden would undoubtedly return at some point. The Doctor didn't know what he would tell him.

When Ilaine began to stir, the Time Lord quickly moved to her side and lifted her head to offer her a few sips of juice. She took them without speaking then moved her gaze to Rose.

"How is she?" she asked,

"She's holding her own," he replied tightly, fixing his eyes upon Ilaine. "You should have told me you're pregnant."

She looked away for a moment, her hand moving to her belly. "You needed my help."

"I could've found someone else—"

"Could you? It seemed very urgent to me."

"Ilaine, your body can't afford to lose blood right now. You were already weak, probably haven't had a decent meal or even a snack in two days, no rest, either… " He raked a hand through his hair. "You may not be able to sustain the pregnancy."

She nodded slowly. "I know. It feels… I feel…" She shuddered a breath, eyes closing against tears.

"I'm sorry."

Her eyes flew open. "No, don't be. You mustn't feel badly about this. It was my decision, and there was no choice in my mind. It was the least I could do."

"Will your husband feel the same way?"

"Yes. The moment he came to get me, he said he wanted me to do whatever was necessary to help Rose."

"I doubt he was aware of the potential consequences."

"Perhaps not. But it doesn't matter." She smiled poignantly. "We both wanted to help."

He took her hand. "Thank you. Now, I'm going to arrange for a good meal for you, and you're going to finish this juice then have some water. And you're going to stay off your feet and get at least six hours of sleep."

"I can't possibly—"

He lifted a hand and waggled his finger at her. "No arguments. Doctor's orders. I'll see that the children are taken care of."

"But you need to rest, too."

"Actually, I don't, not really."

He staved off further discussion by bustling around the room then slipping off to the infirmary for a few minutes to arrange for some food and see how the small patients were faring.

When he returned, he told Ilaine that the boys were no worse; her relief brought a blush of color to her pale cheeks. Rose remained wan and dangerously weak, though. If necessary he would find another blood donor. As Ilaine had said so emphatically, it was the least anyone could do.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	12. Chapter 12

Ilaine was settled in a small room beside the children's sickroom. The Doctor bustled between the lab and Rose's chamber, alternating his attention between creating a second, larger batch of antitoxin and keeping a close eye upon his companion.

He'd just finished the serum and gone to check on her again when she opened her eyes.

"Rose?" He could hardly believe that she was looking at him. Her gaze was bleary, but he could tell that she was aware of his presence. "No, don't try to talk," he cautioned when her lips parted.

He gave her some water then sat beside her upon the mattress. The hand he ran comfortingly over her cheek told him that she was warmer, and he noticed that her pallor had faded, although she still remained pale.

"You're going to be fine," he said firmly. Oh, he'd told her that at least a dozen times over the last hours, but now it was more than a wish; it was the truth. "And," he added, well aware that she'd want to know, "the children are doing better. We've got enough antitoxin for everyone now, thanks to you."

She gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment. Her eyes moved to her arm. The lesions had begun healing, clearly leaving scars in their wake. The wicked bruise inflicted by Wembur's hasty efforts remained.

He ran gentle fingers over one of the scars then traced the outline of the bruise. "I'll take care of these as soon as we return to the TARDIS. You'll never even know this happened."

The look she gave him told him irrevocably that she would indeed know; this was not a memory to be discarded.

"You saved their lives," he told her softly. "And that's not something to forget."

Her eyes began to close; she would fatigue extremely easily for some time yet. The Doctor tucked the blankets around her then left her to her healing slumber.

* * *

By the next day, the children had all begun to show signs of recovery. The Doctor received word that the Prince, too, appeared to be out of danger. The second dose of antitoxin he'd been given had been a huge help. But the way it had been obtained… The Time Lord still bristled at the memory.

Rose was able sit up and hold a small glass. She probably could have held her soup spoon, too, but the Doctor insisted on doing it for her. They hadn't had much of a chance to talk while she'd been recovering. While he'd kept a close eye upon her, he hadn't wanted to overtax her and had kept the conversation to a minimum—something of a feat of restraint for him.

Now, however, as he spooned soup into her mouth, she was anxious to hear the details of the many hours she'd missed.

"There's not all that much to tell," he fibbed. "I made the serum, it saved the children, and everyone lives."

"But I remember Dr. Wembur comin' in here an' tellin' me that you needed more blood.

I was still sorta out of it, but I thought you'd said we had to wait."

He nodded tightly. "He seemed to think otherwise. He claimed the King insisted that all the children receive the serum at the same time, regardless of the risk to you." A bit of soup splashed onto his leg.

"I don't remember much after that."

"No, Rose, you wouldn't. You were very weak."

"How much blood did he take?"

"Too much."

His tone must have alerted her to his lingering distress because she reached for his free hand. "Did you think I was going to die?"

He could not answer her.

"I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? Rose, this wasn't your fault! If that bastard hadn't—"

"No, Doctor, it sounds like he did what needed to be done. An' if that's what it took, if that was the only way to save the children, then it was worth it."

"I nearly lost you!" he blurted out.

She nodded. "Kinda figured that. But you didn't; you found a way an' you saved me."

"No," he shook his head, "I didn't. It was Ilaine. She gave you a transfusion."

"I think you had a little bit t'do with it," she said with a small smile. "But I wanna thank her. Could you send her in when she has a second?"

"I'll give her your thanks."

"Yeah, but I wanna tell her in person."

"She's…" He hesitated.

"She's what? Doctor?" Rose's expression grew anxious. "Is she all right? Did the transfusion hurt her somehow? Oh God, did she give too much?"

"She's going to be fine," he reassured her.

"But?" she prompted.

He sighed. She'd find out eventually, he supposed. "She's pregnant, Rose. I didn't know. I'd never have let her do it if I had; I'd've found someone else."

"Did it harm the baby?"

"Possibly. Things are a bit dodgy right now, but Ilaine's resting, and we're all hoping for the best."

"Yeah." Rose remained quiet for a short while, then she spoke again. "So you think all the children're gonna recover?"

"Looks like it."

"They gonna have scars?" She glanced back at her arm.

"Some."

"Anythin' else? Didn't you say people usually end up with damage to their organs?"

"They may. I've been keeping a close eye on them, and so far their hearts seem most affected, but they're all getting stronger, so I have every hope that they'll all live long, happy lives."

Rose rubbed at her chest. "Seems okay," she murmured.

"You made a good recovery from the disease," he confirmed, for his part as much as for hers. "Even so, you need to finish this soup then get some more sleep."

She rolled her eyes, and he grinned, knowing that her unspoken protest was a very good sign.

* * *

By the following day, Rose was strong enough to get out of bed. Feeling confident in her recovery, the Doctor had departed early in the morning to retrieve the TARDIS, parking her in a shed behind the infirmary. For his part, he was anxious to get away. He'd had enough of the place to last several lifetimes.

When he returned to the palace grounds, he found Rose in the sickroom visiting with the children. Her smile seemed to warm the entire room.

"We should get going as soon as you're ready," he told her.

She looked up from Raben's bedside. "Yeah. I jus' wanna say good-bye to Ilaine. I stopped in earlier; she's lookin' pretty good."

"Yes, she's doing better." As they were leaving the sickroom, Marden intercepted them.

"The King would like to see you both in the Palace," the Sentry told them.

The Doctor shook his head firmly. "No thanks."

"He sent me specifically to get you," Marden replied.

"Tell him we'd already left," the Time Lord said.

Marden nodded. "As you wish." He lifted his hand; he held a small package. "This is the item you requested; I sent one of the Junior Sentries to the city first thing this morning."

The Doctor took the q'ranium wires from him. "Thank you."

"I'll just tell Ilaine good bye," Rose said, ducking off into the adjacent room.

Marden offered his hand to the Doctor, who shook it firmly. "I know we'll never be able to thank you," the Sentry began.

"Actually, you already have," the Doctor replied. At the man's questioning look, he added, "You showed me where your true loyalties lie, and I appreciate that."

"I won't forget."

They chatted idly for a few minutes until Rose returned. After a hug from Marden, she reached for the Doctor's hand and they strolled slowly down the long hallway to the doors. This time, however, no one prevented their egress.

As they walked toward the shed, the Doctor said, "Never, never do anything like that again."

Rose looked up at him, surprised by the harsh tone of his voice. "But I—"

He shook his head fiercely then enveloped her in a tight hug. "No, Rose, never. I never, ever want to come that close to losing you again."

She buried her head beneath his chin. "'Kay."

He breathed in the scent of her hair and knew that she'd made a promise likely beyond her control to keep. He'd see to it, though; he'd be more careful in the future. Because Rose's life was the most precious thing in the universe to him.

* * *

_The End_


End file.
